


The Flour Patch

by bodtlings



Series: Baking Shenanigans [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, M/M, and i just wanted it so bad, baker marco anyone???, ill update the tags and add relationships as we go i guess!!!, set in new york city?? bc i live here, so so bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtlings/pseuds/bodtlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is the owner and head baker of the corner street bakery The Flour Patch in New York City. The homey feel, relaxing atmosphere and delectable aromas of various pastries and breads are what attract customers into Marco's doors, but it's the staff that turn them into friends. If you asked anyone who has set foot inside the bakery, they'd tell you Marco and his coworkers were the icing on the cake of what makes the place so wonderful, aside from his talent of knowing how to make things <em>just</em> right. That's why, when Jean Kirschtein hears from a few friends that this new pastelería is something he just <em>has</em> to try out, he makes the trip down 6th Avenue and stumbles upon not just a bakery, but a freckled baker that just might turn his world around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to The Flour Patch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco's come a long way and worked harder than he ever has for his dream. With a little help, the dream finally becomes reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been writing too many sads lately and was in need of a fic with copious amounts of fluff and thus this was born. i actually published this a while ago but didnt like how it turned out and so im redoing it and hoping its better this time around. (special thanks to kaden for bein my beta this chapter !)
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com)

Marco Bodt is not shaking.

Marco Bodt does not  _shake_.

But anyone with eyes can see that he is, in fact, shaking.

It looks a little strange, seeing an adult man shaking harder than trees in a hurricane on a street corner in Midtown Manhattan. Tourists and locals alike shove past him, trying to push him aside and get on their way. They bump their bags and shoulders "accidentally" into him because he's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and they're all thinking that he needs to move, but he's rooted to the jagged cement. Half-hearted apologies from strangers fall on deaf ears, the rushing blood pounding in Marco's veins the only sound loud enough for him to hear as his pulse quickens. Marco's feet are firmly planted on the ground, binding him to his spot on the corner in front of a vacant store on 23rd Street and 6th Avenue. He's gaping at this empty space in front of him and a million things are going through his head, but nothing seems to be registering except the wooden hook of an umbrella handle some passerby jams into his ribs as they walk past him. Still, he is not moving.

It took him a long time to get to where he's standing now, in a crowd of people who don't know him, amidst faces he may or may not come to recognize in the months to come. He’s amazed, stunned to immobility, and while he stands there and continues to be cursed at for not getting out of the way, he thinks of all the hardships he went through to be standing on that corner.

Marco worked so hard and saved up as much money as he could and practiced for hours with his mentor, his best friend and closest relative, who taught him everything he knows. Marco J. Bodt has sifted pounds of flour, cracked hundreds of eggs, slaved over ten cakes at the same time; he has done all of this and more, but today, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon at the beginning of November, he finally begins to put all of his hard work into something of his own creation that, for once, isn't edible.

Coming up with a name for his store was harder than Marco originally anticipated; he was never good at being clever and witty. He was nearing towards something simple, like "Marco's" or "Marco's Bakery" but decided there was nothing that made it stand out. He was in New York City, smack in the middle of Manhattan on one of the busiest streets, and a simple name wouldn't bring in customers. He needed something people would remember, something he knew people would appreciate. He needed a name that would stick with people long after they left with their pastries, that would roll off the tongue and sound like a place people could recommend to their friends. Marco was a bit let down by the fact that he didn't come up with the final name himself, but his mentor did, and that more than made up for it.

Marco knew full well going into this that none of it would be easy—far from it. He knew that sleep would be a rarity and time off would be near nonexistent. He knew vacation was something he'd probably never get, that he'd be up every day at five in the morning in the back kitchen ready to get started on the day's orders. With every bone in his body, Marco knew it would be hard work and he had to give 200% or nothing.

But it'd be more than work—it'd be so much more rewarding than just  _work_.

Marco dreamed about this store for  _years_. He constantly thought about how many people would smile because of his pastries, of how many friends he'd make in the regular customers who would come by every day. It made his heart swell thinking about breaking his back over five batches of bread and baking wedding cakes and sfogliatelles. His hands were itching to get to work when he imagined mixing the homemade gelatos, bringing together the ingredients for croissants, putting up six pots of coffee in the morning for the early risers and early workers. 

Baking was more than a profession to Marco. Baking was home, was the only thing that  _fit_. When Marco was pushed to pursue a career in medicine by his father, he was miserable; nothing was more unappealing than hospital halls and dying patients. Sure, he had the compassion fit to be a doctor and he was smart enough to do great in med school, but it wasn't what he wanted. Marco found home in recipes and baking equipment. Marco was happier going grocery shopping for a tart he wanted to try his hand at making more than slaving over anatomy textbooks and controlled substances. It was a profession beyond his scope of interest and, after being shot down and cut off by his father, he packed his things and moved to a city he'd never been in with people he didn't know. It took more than a month for Marco to stop telling himself how impulsive and irrational he was being. He was torn for quite a while; he felt guilty that he'd shot down his father's dream, that it wasn't something he wanted for himself. He knew his father was just looking out for him and wanted him to live a comfortable, happy life. On the other hand, Marco was proud of himself. This was his  _dream_ , and although he wasn't injecting people with medicine and saving lives, he was more than at peace with opening a bakery to call his own. It took some time, but Marco came to terms with his father's reaction; it might not be something his father agreed with, but stopping Marco from doing what he was so passionate about? Not in a million years.

Marco knew living in one of the busiest cities in the whole world would be different from where he'd grown up, but he hadn't realized  _how_  different. Marco seriously underestimated the people more than anything when coming to New York; he knew it was quite a large city, but imagining it and  _being_ in it were two completely different things. He got used to the subway and bus routes, what with the blocks being so organized, but the people were something else. Coming from a small town where everyone knew each other, and besides the fact that Marco didn't know so much as one soul in all of New York, it was baffling. Never before had he been in a bus that had no seats available, let alone room to stand. He'd never walked down the street and have to consciously make sure he didn't bump into someone because he knew it'd earn him some harsh words he'd rather not hear at nine in the morning. He’d read somewhere that New Yorkers have thick skin, no patience, and tons of traffic, and the reading couldn’t have been more accurate. The New York experience was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before and he'd be lying if he said he got used to it fairly quickly. Marco has come to understand where they're coming from, though, and since then, commends their stubbornness and sees their fighting spirit as admirable.

On a day back when Marco was sure he wouldn't find work, after he’d gone through too many stores to count trying to see if a position was available for him to make some money, he saw a "For Rent" sign in the corner window of a vacant store. If you asked him now, he still couldn't tell you what made him stop in front of that particular window, just like how he was standing in front of it now. There was seemingly no reason for his eyes to wander about through the glass, and yet, he found himself dialing the number on the sign quicker than he could say, "Yes hi, I'd like this store please." It was a rash decision and all he had were his savings, but he was too in love with a vision held close at heart for such a long time that he threw caution to the wind.

After meeting the landlord and discussing financial matters, Marco signed the papers for the store and became it's new owner. Somehow, some way, Marco met with the landlord of the space two days after the phone call and surveyed the vacant store. The front doors would have to be replaced and the floor inside needed to be ripped up in favor of new wooden panels. The back where the kitchen will be had to be cleaned out to make way for new appliances, and one of the walls in the main room most definitely had to be knocked down to make the space bigger and ready for bookshelves Marco had ordered. Marco planed to repaint all the walls more homey colors—browns and golds with different colored accents as he goes along, which he was positive will go over better with future customers instead of the cracking yellow that was peeling off. There was so much to be done, so much work to do, but he fell in love with it. Monthly rent and renovation prices were negotiated, and the security deposit did a number on his savings, but he was sure, he was  _so sure_  that it would pay off in the end, that the store would be a wild success and make up for how much he'd wound up paying.

Marco found two jobs—one at a restaurant waiting tables, and the other at a music store—to start saving up for the appliances and renovations he planned for. Tips came big and frequent at the restaurant, and Marco turned up his charm even more than usual for them. The money he'd accumulated over the course of three months was enough to get out of the studio apartment he'd been in and rent the apartment upstairs from his vacant store below, so he had the whole unit. His landlord was a nice man and appreciated Marco's cooperation (and his money) and promised that as soon as he could, he'd give him the key to the store and the upstairs apartment once everything was settled and the locks were changed. But the apartment was his, and once the deal was sealed and he had the keys to upstairs, he moved in as quickly as possible.

It wasn't easy: Marco worked himself to the point of illness sometimes and rarely ever gave himself a break, but he did it. He worked and he worked and he worked until he could afford to pay for his apartment rent and the store rent, and although it was the hardest thing Marco had ever had to do, he always told himself it could be worse. It could've always wound up being a terrible, terrible situation, but Marco was thankful every day that things turned out how they did. It was a start, and a start was all Marco had asked for. The chance to do this, to start something on his own and build it from the ground up around something he loved to do more than anything—that's what he wanted. If it killed him along the way, well, then so be it. At least he'd go out doing what he loved.

That's what he thinks about, standing in the slight drizzle before the front steps of the store and looking up. He makes a mental note about posting  _Help Wanted!_  ads in the paper, wondering who he'd hire and if he'd like them. He wonders what website to use to buy aprons with the shop's logo and name on them and if rugs were going to give the place a homier feel than wood flooring. Do bookshelves seem a little out of place for a bakery? Were love seats and overstuffed couches a good idea, or should he stick with the standard wooden table and chairs? What if he set up a bar running along the front shop window so people could sit and look out onto the street? These are constant questions swimming in Marco's mind since he'd first had the idea of opening up his own bakery, and questions that resurface as he stands on that corner,  _finally_  holding the key to his shop after months of waiting for it. Months of waiting for a key, but years waiting for the opportunity.

Now is when that opportunity finally evolves into a chance, an honest chance. 

It is the most thrilling, electrifying, downright  _exhilarating_  feeling of Marco's life and he hasn’t even started yet. 

His legs are the consistency equivalent to pudding, his arms limp and hands trembling. Marco walks up the two steps to stand in front of the doors of his store.

Marco reminds himself to breathe. If he really wants to do this, if he really  _wants_  this—which he does, more than he’s ever wanted anything—he has to breathe, because a dead man can't run the bakery.

Not just any bakery— _his_  bakery.

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in the beginning of November, Marco turns the key and opens his doors for the first time.

His heart feels like it's left his body. 

 

* * *

   

The click of his heels against the chipped linoleum floors bounces off the walls of the main room of the future bakery. Marco was only inside once before when he was first looking to see if it'd be a good place to open shop, but being inside it alone is different. The yellowing and cracked paint job on the walls looks horrid, and if you don't pay attention to where you're walking, you're bound to trip and fall from the uneven flooring. Not a single piece of furniture is in any of the rooms, and Marco has to do some  _serious_  scrubbing on what he wants to keep of the countertops if they're to be deemed sanitary and in working condition.

He loves it.

Not because it's in need of some intense love and a makeover, but because it's  _his_  and that is the beauty of it. Paying no mind to the dust and dirt that will cling to the seat of his pants, Marco sits cross legged on the floor and looks around, taking in what needs changing and thinking about what to put where.

Originally, the landlord was opposed to Marco knocking down the wall that split the main room in two, but after Marco offered another two thousand dollars to do so, he agreed. Staring at it now, Marco knows it was the right choice because there is no way he can successfully do business with such a layout. But when he thinks about the bookshelves and specials of the day and of all the people that would be frequenting, he can't help but smile. 

"We did it. We really did it," Marco mutters to himself.

His legs are beginning to tingle at the loss of circulation, so he stands up to regulate the blood flow. Marco wipes his pants as best as he can and makes his way to the back. One of the doors opposite the entrance to the back of the bakery leads to his apartment upstairs, but because of the lock on the front door as well as the door inside to go up, Marco couldn't get through it until the landlord gave him both keys. For the first time, he opens that door as well and walks up to his apartment.

It's an automatic response, kicking his shoes off at the door and placing the key on the key hook on the wall. He's gotten so used to doing it every night after both jobs that he has to stop mid-stride to appreciate the new key on the rack. He allows himself to smile at it before turning around, looking to his left over the couch and into the living room. 

Marco not-so gently slaps his hands to his cheeks and says, "Alright, the key works, second door lock works. Time to get down to business." He turns to his right into the kitchen, grabs a notepad and a pen from one of the drawers, and makes his way back into the living room to plop on the couch. Marco crosses his ankles and props his feet on the small coffee table.

If renovations and remodeling and other cosmetic additions are to be executed, Marco realizes he is going to need some help. He puts pen to paper and begins drafting what he wants to say for the newspaper advertisements.

 

* * *

 

_Ding dong._

"Coming, one sec!" Marco shouts out his apartment window facing the street. He quickly scrambles to fasten the belt looped in his jeans and slides his sneakers on while turning up the thermostat to allow the heat to begin making its way into his little home. It tends to take a little while, so he figures he better start warming up his home so when he came back up it'll be nice and comfortable.

"Where did I put the—oh," he whispers to himself as he locates his phone on the kitchen island. "Phone, keys. We're good." Marco locks his apartment door behind him and stomps down the stairs with all the grace of a baby elephant to get to the front door. 

_"Maybe it's the other door, Armin."_

_"Eren, I'm pretty sure this is it. Look, it's the same address as in the paper. It's this door."_

_"But if this is an interview for a bakery, where's the bakery? And if_ that's  _the bakery, where's the sign? It looks deserted. This could be a trap for all types of illegal shit for all you know. If I die I’m telling Mikasa it was your fault."_

 _"What! Honestly, why would they advertise any kind of illegal activity in a_ public newspaper _?_ _Maybe it’s—"_

Marco throws open the door as one of the boys in front of it are mid-sentence. He tries to bring his quickened breathing back to its normal pace and offers his friendliest, brightest smile. "Hi! I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. You must be Eren and Armin, right?"

The shorter of the two holds out his hand and reciprocates Marco's smile after shaking his head to get over the initial confusion. "Yes! I'm Armin, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Bodt."

"Please, just Marco is fine with me." He shakes Armin's hand, notes that his grip is gentle and steady, and immediately thinks he'll have the perfect touch for decorating. Marco turns to Eren and holds out his hand. "And you're Eren? It's a pleasure to meet you."

Eren tentatively offers his hand with a nod of his head, to which Marco observes is firm yet gentle. Marco internally comments that Eren would be great with the breads and other heavy doughs. "Come on up. Sorry if my apartment is a little cold. I put the heat on before I came down so it should warm up soon." 

"That's alright, I think between the two of us we're bundled up enough to last us through the next ice age," Armin laughs, and Marco sees he's right. It's hard to believe there are actual humans under the giant coats and scarves and huge boots. Marco's learned that New York winters are tough the hard way; he'd much rather  _not_  revisit surviving his first winter in the city in nothing but thin skinny jeans, t-shirts, and a raincoat.

Unlocking his door, Marco steps into his apartment and takes his shoes off by the heel. It was a little unnecessary that he did so in the first place, seeing as he only lived upstairs, but he assumed it was only proper to be fully dressed when meeting two people for the first time. Now that he was upstairs again, the shoes are kicked off at the heel and put off to the side in favor of comfort.

Turning half his body around, he tells the two with a gesture of his hand, "There's a coat rack right behind the door that you can feel free to use. Would you guys like coffee or tea or anything?"

"Tea would be great, thank you," Armin requests and Eren follows with, "Tea if you have, please."

"You got it. Milk and sugar?" Eren nods and Armin only agrees to sugar. Marco smiles, turning the corner into the kitchen to set up a kettle on the stove and takes out his giant box of tea stuffed with more flavors than is probably needed for one person. The kitchen's island isn't so much of an island as it is a wall with the middle-to-top portion missing, so he can see right to his front door from the kitchen and into the living room. Marco tries his very best not to laugh at Eren nearly falling trying to take his boots off and at Armin almost hitting himself in the face trying to help Eren get his jacket off.  _Gotta love New York weather,_ Marco thinks, and scoops sugar into three mugs.

 

* * *

 

"We both saw your add in the paper. I won't lie, we were a bit hesitant to work in a bakery at first because neither of us have any experience in a kitchen, but we figured there's no harm in at least coming for an interview."

Armin appears to be the spokesperson for the two of them, dominating the questions Marco asks and doing so with professionalism and a polite but friendly charm. Immediately, Marco can tell he'll, if he's hired, that Armin would be fantastic with all the customers.

"Of course, I'm glad you decided to call! So tell me about yourselves—are you in school, do you have a part time job somewhere else, what is there for me to know?" Marco looks to Eren first as he takes a sip of tea and hopes that he'll be the first to speak. Either Eren picks up on it or Armin does because Eren sees his cue and speaks.

"Well," Eren clears his throat and sits up straighter, "I'm twenty-two and I'm a recent university graduate with a Bachelor's degree in English. I'd like to be a journalist or work for a publishing house in editing eventually—either one would be great—but right now we're taking some time off to save some money." He fiddles with the handle of the mug of his tea and looks down, brows furrowing in contemplation of what other points he wants to bring up. "I don't have another job because the one I had was too far from home for it to be worth holding, so I'm looking for something different. I'd still have to travel a little bit, but it’s only about twenty-five minutes away and I can walk from the subway, so I’ll always be on time."

Marco hums in response, pleased with Eren's answers. But there is still one he'd like to receive, probably the most important. "So what are you looking for in working for me at the bakery?"

"Honestly?" Eren looks up and a flash of something Marco thinks he recognizes as sadness on his face, but he doesn't have enough time to mull it over before Eren's smile erases whatever was there previously. "I'm paying for my loans from school by myself, plus rent and food and the all those basic necessities of living. Tuition was expensive, and I'm supporting myself and partly my mother. I don't have this insane passion for baking and pastries and stuff, but I'm being entirely honest in saying that I will be  _the_  best worker you will ever find. Teach me the recipes and how to bake and I'll do it. I'm good with manual labor too, and I know those sacks of flour aren't exactly light lifting."

He makes Marco throw his head back with laughter. Eren was definitely spot on with the sacks of flour—they are most definitely not easy to haul. Marco is impressed though, he likes Eren already; he has an easy-going attitude, even though he needs to adjust to his surroundings at first. He seems to warm up rather quickly and carries enough passion in him to fulfill whatever task he's given. He might not have experience in baking, but Marco figures he doesn't mind teaching him; it would be hard to find someone who is as honest and straightforward as Eren, and Marco values that. He’d rather have an honest employee who needs to be taught some things than hire someone who knows what they're doing with a disagreeable demeanor and penchant for mischief.

Humming mostly to himself, Marco nods. "You're right, those flour bags aren't the lightest things in Midtown. What about you, Armin?"

Armin gives a timid grin and scratches his nose, a habit Marco knows far too well, as he does it himself. "I'll be just as truthful as Eren in saying I'm also a  university graduate, and expenses are sending me into a financial crisis." A shaky laugh escapes him before he laces his fingers around the mug of tea in his lap and, just like Eren, sits up straighter in his seat. "I'm also twenty-two, but I focused on psychology in school. I don't have a job as of right now for much of the same reasons as Eren, but if you'd give us a chance, I'd really like to work here. It's not much, but my grandfather used to let me help him bake when he was around, so I do have experience in the kitchen, however minor. I do have a steady hand and a photographic memory though, which I think could be good for designs on cakes, if that helps."

Marco closes his eyes and mulls over the information. If he lets himself visual it, Marco can see it—Eren working on the heavy dough, the breads, big batches of pastries that require hand mixing, and Armin on the register, the cake decorating and general customer assistance. He has no idea how they'll be behind a mixer or rotating multiple pans in the oven, but if his intuition is leading him in the right direction, he has a very good feeling about the two of them. However good his intuition might be, Marco has to let it sit like pizza dough for it to settle and rise when the time is right. Some serious reflection is in order before making any major decisions.

Looking over at the two of them, Marco grins. "Wonderful. I just have one more question." Eren and Armin exchange a glance between each other before turning their attention back to Marco. "If this is too intrusive, please forgive me and feel free to incline to answer. But what is your relationship with each other?"

Armin's face turns a very luminescent shade of pink while Eren's eyes flit every which way about Marco's kitchen. 

Marco mentally high-fives himself and thanks his gut once more for always being spot on. "It's okay if you're dating, there's no problem. I was just torn between you two either being incredibly close best friends or an item, and it seems to me the latter was spot on."

Eren coughs into his fist and as soon as Armin's skin returns to it's normal shade, the kitchen is silent for a beat before the three of them look at one another and laugh.

Marco has a _really_ good feeling about the two of them.

  

* * *

 

The feeling proved to be one Marco wound up going with; he held several more interviews after Eren and Armin with potential employees for his bakery, but none of them gave the impression the first two had. It would've been a beautiful bonus if they had experience, but in the end, Marco felt like Eren and Armin were the ones who seemed to have the best fit. 

After their interview in mid November, Eren and Armin had left their contact information with Marco in case he wanted another interview with them or had any questions once they left. He digs out their numbers and calls to let them know that he'd like them for the jobs. Armin gives many excited thank you's nothing, but it's nothing close to how Eren takes the news; Marco has to hold the phone away from his ear for a minute while Eren screams of joy somewhere in the background. To anyone else it might be the point where they regret their choice, but it only affirmed Marco's. Eren's eccentric attitude, that spark of excitement, is not something easily found in people and Marco had thought from the beginning it'd be a wonderful thing to add to the atmosphere of his bakery. 

Marco does, however, make sure to inform the duo that the bakery still needs to be remodeled, and while it will take some time, he would pay them if they can help. He's trying to stretch his money as much as he can by doing what he can himself, but Marco promises ten dollars an hour to start when it's time to begin the transformation. Eren and Armin both agree and tell him they can't wait.

Once he gets off the phone with them, Marco checks the order status of the shelves and bookcases he paid for, and is relieved to see they won't be coming for a few more weeks. The later they come, the better, because Marco wants to get going on the walls before they arrive. But before he can start to paint, he has to knock down the middle wall.

Marco’s landlord knew of the wall coming down when he agreed to having Marco rent out the space but was more than hesitant when Marco told him of his plans to do it almost immediately. It took more convincing than Marco thought necessary, but his landlord just gave him dramatic sighs and the number of a place he knew to be reliable to do the job. The company came a week after Marco had called, took down the wall without doing any damage to it’s surroundings, cleaned up and was on their way in a much shorter time than Marco thought possible. The two rooms that were once separated are now one large room to make way for the eventual seating area for customers. It's bigger than Marco thought it would be, but that just leaves more space for chairs and tables, so he doesn't find himself complaining.

The next thing on his to-do list is to paint, this way he doesn't have to worry if paint falls onto the floor; it's going to be ripped up eventually and saves him some money he would have spent otherwise to buy a tarp to protect the tiles. Armin has a surprisingly good talent for color scheming, he had found out, after consulting him on colors he picked himself. Marco had told him of his plans to paint the walls a rich brown and have accents of gold throughout and Armin had agreed, but suggested it’d be better to have the walls in the front one color and maybe have the wall behind the register a darker color. It was a great idea to Marco, and so they decided upon "French press" for the customer side and "log cabin" for the behind-the-counter wall. With the colors decided, Marco made haste down to Home Depot and got his colors, paintbrushes, some paint bins, and mixing sticks. He thought sandpaper would be a good idea too, considering the paint on the walls already was chipping and falling off. He added some spackle and sandpaper to his basket to cover actual holes in the wall and smooth it down so the paint won't appear bumpy when it dries. Marco bites his lip when he gives the cashier his money and does his best not to look wounded as he walks across the street and down the block back to his apartment.

The three of them got to work as soon as they procure ratty clothes to paint in. Marco gives a can to Eren, a can to Armin, and kept a can for himself, but not before he put Armin on spackling whatever tiny holes needed to be filled in the walls. When the spackle dries, Eren grabs sandpaper to smooth it down, and soon enough, they're reading to paint.

Marco dips his roller and slides it back and forth in the sloshing paint bin, grinning like a mad man the entire time. Eren takes notice and raises an eyebrow, wondering when the hell Marco is actually going to pick up the roller and start painting.

“Uh, Marco? Fumes get to your head?”

“What?” Snapped out of his daze, Marco picks his head up to see Eren looking somewhat concerned. It was then that he realizes he was just moving the roller instead of actually painting.

Marco laughs and scratches at his nose, a blush dusting his cheeks. “Ah, I kinda spaced out there, sorry. Yeah, I’m okay.” He lifts the roller out of the paint bin and slaps it onto the wall, splattering bits of paint onto the floor and on his shirt. He grins as he starts to paint, and Eren just smiles and continues working on his designated wall.

Eren finishes first and Marco follows after. Armin is a bit slower than the other two, so they help him together before moving to the wall that would be behind the counters. Marco had cursed the price of the paint when he bought it, but seeing it on the walls brings an entirely different feeling. He really appreciates Armin’s point about having one wall a different color, and the choices he made in the shades have that homey feel Marco really wanted. It was only the first step of many, but it only fuels Marco’s pride and excitement.

Once the painting is done, it's a little after dinnertime. Marco pays them the ten dollars per hour he promised and treats them to dinner as thanks for helping.

Over dinner, Marco gets to know Eren and Armin better; their friendly banter, the way they look at each other, how they include Marco in everything without making him feel like a third wheel or their boss, but rather a friend. He discovers that they shared a one-bedroom apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, and grew up together from the time they were eight years old. It makes sense, considering how in-sync they are with each other; they're like a package deal and Marco struck gold. It makes Marco happy, not just because he knows he made the right choice in employees, but the right choice in having them as friends, too.

Begrudgingly, Marco hires the same people who ripped the wall down to tear the floors up. Within almost two weeks, the old floor is entirely gone and the new one ready to be put down. He's become a familiar face in Home Depot, so much so that almost every employee knows him as soon as he walks through the doors. They help him pick perfect dark wood paneling for the front part of the bakery and the cheapest pure-white tiling for the break room and the kitchen. Eren and Armin help him haul everything off the back of the Home Depot truck, and after getting a brief tutorial on how to place the tiles and wood panels down and how to set them, they're good to go. Marco is relieved that he had decided to paint before putting the floor down because he would’ve just about had a heart attack if one speck of paint had gotten on those floors. Needless to say they cost a pretty penny, but if he's going to do this right, he has to have the best.

The bookcases and shelves come next and arrive for delivery just as the floors are all down and dry. Armin helps Marco delegate which spots to put them in according to the layout and how Marco wants to set everything up. Marco and Eren heave the wood casings around with Armin directing them and miraculously—much to Marco's never-ending relief—they manage to avoid scratching the floor.

Marco’s vision for the bakery has always been something like this: when customers walk in, directly in front of them would be the counter holding the register with display cases for pastry on both sides. On the back wall behind the register are the wire baskets of muffins, and cookies with breads and bagels on shelves and racks. To their right are be tables and chairs to sit at for groups or individuals, while on their left there's two bookcases filled to the brim with various novels, magazines, newspapers, and journals. There's be couches, love seats, a rocking chair in the corner, and a coffee table big enough to reach the ends of each chair. A bar goes along the front windows across the shop so people who want to look out into the street while they munch on some food or have a cup of coffee can do so.

He's been so dead-set on his vision that it isn't possible to sway in the slightest, and Armin and Eren have done nothing but support his ideas since the beginning.

But before they can get started on the various accessories for the front of the bakery, they need to work on the back. And that is the worst part.

Marco’s chest is in serious pain when he sees the prices of baking ovens, mixers, and every other piece of baking equipment he needs for the first time. While scrolling through _Sears_ catalogs and other home-improvement magazines, Marco is half convinced he's going to have to give a limb and maybe a third of his soul to afford everything. He wonders, briefly, and with disappointment, if Chase bank has checks he can infuse part of his soul to as an acceptable form of payment.

With much help from the employees of the stores he's ventured into, Marco eventually finds sturdy equipment for good prices. He's lost track of how many whisks and bowls and measuring cups, pots, pans, electric mixers, and different sized rolling pins currently occupying his apartment. He was sure he would need materials as he went, and if he forgot anything, he could always get them when they were needed.

Countertops, display cases, metal-wired baskets, two registers, and baking ovens are next and last on the list to purchase; between the floors, the bookcases and paint, spackle, and every other tool under the sun, Marco is lacking in funds. The savings he's acquired from his long nights in the diner and early mornings at the music store have helped immensely, but they aren't enough to cover everything. So Marco picks up more shifts, works twice as long and thrice as hard. 

Two and a half more months of work later, Marco is finally able to start building up on his store again. The first of the last he buys are the two registers, receipt paper, and a credit card machine. He knows business is going to be slow at first while people scope out the bakery and chance a walk in, so he decides he only needs to set up one of the registers; when they got busier, he could set up the second one.

While Marco, Eren, and Armin help him set up shop, Marco gives them lessons, which he pays them for as well. Marco teaches them how to measure by eye so they’re not always scrambling for the measuring cups and wasting time. He stresses the importance of measurements in baking because, unlike with cooking, baking is precise, and if one part was incorrectly proportionate to the rest of the ingredients, the whole batch would be ruined. It's like an army in pastry form—if one squad falls, everything else is in disarray. It has to work like a well-oiled machine, and Marco doesn't care how many metaphors he has to use to get it into their heads, as long as it stayed with them.

After teaching them the basics—Cake Baking 101 and How To Prep Your Station brought to you by Marco Bodt, or so he called it—Armin and Eren become used to the setting. Of course, they aren't in a big kitchen because they've been practicing in Marco’s apartment upstairs, but they become accustomed to Marco's advice, and Marco feels more confident in their abilities as they progress. The more they bake, the more Marco realizes his very first assumptions about the two of them based on their handshakes was right—Armin has a very steady hand, and his memory is remarkable. When Marco shows him a picture of a design with piped flowers on cupcakes, Armin tries his hand and does extremely well. One or two elements are missing, but if one didn't see the design before Armin piped it on the cupcake, one could not have known there was anything missing.

Eren does just as well as Armin; Marco gives him recipes for breads and how to knead it so not too much air gets into the dough but not too much escapes. He shows him that too much yeast can make the bread bake out of the molds, and too little would leave the bread flat and barely risen. Eren is slower to learn, but his determination is astounding, which leads him to succeed more times than not. This Marco greatly appreciates, not just in Eren but in Armin as well—the two of them work very hard and with enjoyment. He's proud of them and the day they can all bake side by side will be a day worth celebrating.

Months of maneuvering, painting, and situating have finally come to an end and everything is set in its rightful place. The countertops are put in, the cabinets in the back are screwed in place, and Marco bought lockers for the lounge area so Eren and Armin have somewhere to put their things during the day. The display cases are the perfect size for the pastries and the register with it's credit card machine is fully functioning. The loveseats, couches, tables, and chairs are set up and in the exact place Marco’s only dreamed about before. He did get the ovens he needed, even if he'll have to pay them off for the next few months. The long bar in front of the windows on either side of the front doors was safely installed, and chairs sit beneath it, waiting for people to use them. Said front doors have been sanded, repainted using the leftover paint from the walls inside, and finally look brand new.

There is only one thing missing, and when it comes, the bakery will be complete.

 

* * *

  

“I don’t know if I can do it, guys.”

“Marco, come on, you’re killing me here. Can you please open it before I turn forty-eight years old?”

“Eren, be patient. This is a big thing for Marco.”

“I know but jeez, if it’s wrong we can always return it.”

“Don’t be so unsympathetic.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying that—“

“Okay.” Marco takes a deep breath and fidgets with his fingers.

“…Okay?” Armin’s eyes scans over Marco’s face, looking for any signs of hesitancy or worry, but finds only the drive to finally open the package.

“What is this, The Fault In Our Pastries? Come on, I want to see it!” Both of Eren’s hands grab onto Armin’s shoulders, using them as leverage to bounce up and down. Armin swats his hands away, which causes Eren to pout. 

Marco holds the pair of scissors in his right hand, a bit shaky and a bit nervous. Actually, a _lot_ nervous. What if it isn't what he thought it would be? What if it turns out horribly, horribly wrong, and it looks worse in person than it did on his computer screen? What if it's cracked or broken and would set back opening up another two weeks and he’d have to send it back and reorder it and fight with them, and who even knows if—

Armin’s hand on his shoulder brings him back to the moment. Armin's smiling at him, blue eyes bright with anticipation and support. “Go on, Marco, it’s okay. I’m sure it’ll look great.”

“Yeah, I mean you designed it yourself, right? You didn’t let us see it when you designed it before, but I wanna see it now. It's gonna look really awesome.” Eren beams with impatience but knows how much it means to Marco, opening what it was he is about to open.

Marco nods and takes another deep breath, steadying his hand and sliding the edge of the scissor through the crease of the cardboard and plastic tape. His heart is thudding so hard against his ribcage he's sure a rib or three are bound to crack. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, hear it in his ears and feel the throb of it in his neck. 

Mechanically, as if it is any other package he receives in the mail, Marco slices open the top flaps of the box and pops the two top panels open. It's a rather large box, the length greater than the width, and he knows he's going to have to hire someone to hang it, but he wanted to open it with Eren and Armin. After all, it isn't really just his bakery anymore—it became a piece of theirs, too. With all the work they put into it, all the time and effort and how many days they’ve spent there with Marco, it might as well be. Marco is happy to give that to them, is happy they had gotten so comfortable being there with him. 

Right now, with Armin’s hand on his shoulder and Eren’s gaze warm on the back of his head, Marco gains the confidence to open the box all the way and look in.

The package is submerged in thousands of foam squiggles to protect it. Armin, Eren, and Marco take armful after armful of foam to put on the front floor of the bakery as they dig to find the hidden treasure. So many of the loose kernels of foam are causing the contents to sink back down, but eventually, they take out enough of them to start to see the grains of wood beneath.

The wood felt sturdy beneath his fingers as he brushes the remaining foam away from the top of the package.

Marco’s heart drops into his stomach.

It's everything he could have ever hoped for—it was what he sketched so many times in so many books, on napkins, on magazine pages, on the palm of his hand, in his dreams behind his eyelids. This was the design Marco had always known would be the final design. It's on all the aprons he ordered, all the polo t-shirts sitting in a box upstairs in his apartment. It's even more beautiful now that it's in front of him, finally real and tangible beneath his calloused hands. 

The bakery is real. The cases are going to be filled, the pastries will be flowing out of the kitchen, and there will be laughter echoing off his bakery walls from the front all the way back into the kitchen where Marco can hear them. All those customers will walk in here with eager stomachs and anticipation, but not before they look at what he's designed, right in the box in front of him—the bakery's sign.

In stere-typically Celtic font,  _The Flour Patch_ rests in one line across aged wood. Vines cascade down and flowers situated themselves in the loops of the letters and in the spaces between the vines. Marco's mentor would've loved it—they passed their love of bakery puns onto Marco, after all.

Nothing is a dream anymore. This is all real life. In real time, in real, actual seconds and minutes and days gone passed. His bakery is being transferred from his mind into a physicality and it blows him away every chance it gets.

Tiny droplets of water fell onto the sign and for a split second, Marco thinks there's a leak in the roof until he realizes the drops are his tears.

Armin’s thumb runs back and forth on the shoulder it rests on while Eren’s chin digs into his other shoulder. They stand in silence, letting Marco sniffle and release shaky laughs in between, and marvel over the physical embodiment of a dream turned reality.

 

* * *

  

They have a rocky start once the bakery opens, but that’s to be expected of most new businesses trying to find their footing.

Eren sometimes puts too much yeast in the french twist breads and Armin calculates the change at the register wrong when a customer pays with cash; even Marco bakes an entire batch of poppyseed muffins instead of the lemon ricotta muffins he'd planned to bake earlier in the day. Slip-ups are often, but the more time passes, the more the kinks are worked out and the three friends fall into a comfortable routine. Mistakes are always bound to happen, and Marco's always known it would be a little rough at first, but he's confident in Eren and Armin’s abilities and his own handiwork.

Marco had initially said, back when he first rented the shop, that he’d be up every morning at unholy hours getting out the day’s orders and early bird's fill of breakfast and coffee, and he was right. Every morning at 4:50am, Marco bolts out of bed and runs into a shower. He throws on white pants, his white polo shirt and green apron with the bakery logo. He's found sneakers to be the most comfortable to work in, and slips them on to sprints downstairs and get started.

The breads take forty-five minutes to rise, so once the doughs are made, Marco lets them sit until it's time for them to go in the oven at 6:45am and beings to bake the easiest of the pastries first. Usually, quick batches of chocolate chip, sugar, and elephant-ear cookies pop into the oven to be the first into the display cases for the day. Once the doughs for all the breads are risen, it's time to pop the baguettes, bagels, croissants, and muffins into the oven. They take a little longer to bake and are the most popular in the morning, and by the time they're ready to come out, the doors are open and they're still warm when bought.

Because Armin and Eren share an apartment, it didn’t make much sense for Eren to get to work alone, only to have Armin come a little bit later. So Armin is with Eren every morning at the back entrance, 5:45am and not a second later. Armin doesn't have to be ready to man the register put up the pots of coffee until until an hour later, so he usually takes a nap in the break room. The lounge area sees more of Armin than anyone else and is stocked with heathy snacks, bottles of water, and a big comfy couch for when it was needed, like Armin’s morning naps. Armin thanks every star in the sky for a boss like Marco, and that’s what he falls asleep thinking about every time he plops himself on the furniture to doze off.

Once the bakery begins to see more customers, lines begin to form outside the doors of the store every morning with the promise of coffee. Armin, as predicted, is spectacular with the customers—he knows all the right things to say and how and when to say them. He's become much better with the money, faster, and more efficient. If someone orders to stay in, he's learned to multitask between walking the orders over to the customers and manning the counter. Similarly, Eren has also shown remarkable improvement since they first began their routines. While his boyfriend naps, Eren helps Marco bake the rest of the heavy doughs and brings out the ingredients for each pastry of the day. He's carried all the sacks of flour to the pantry each delivery day—like he said he would, because, also like he said, they are indeed not light—and worked with a fervor nearly equal to Marco.

Marco is actually quite impressed with both of them and further pats himself on the back for hiring them.

One of the best parts of all they experience every day they work, Marco finds out, is hearing Armin greet each customer with, "Welcome to The Flour Patch!" He's never smiled so often in such a short amount of time.

 

* * *

 

 

On a relatively quiet evening, where Marco isn't sweating more than a sumo wrestler mid-match, Marco is able to leave the kitchen and head to the front of the bakery, something he doesn't get to do as often as he'd like.

Describing how much Marco’s heart swells at the sight of customers in his bakery is impossible. The couches are occupied, two of the tables are full, and Marco sees all of them reading,  _actually reading_  from his book selection. Someone walks up to place a book back on the bookshelf only to retrieve another and plops back in the same chair they're sitting in, a cup of tea and a cupcake on the table beside them. A teenager types on her laptop, a cup of coffee next to her and a few open books that Marco knows aren’t his. Marco thinks she must be a student and remembers what it was like when he was in college for all of two months on the pre-med track during undergraduate. He'd barely gotten any sleep, enough food in his system, and fainted once or twice from lack of hydration. It was not the best of times and definitely the wake-up call he needed to deny his father's dreams to pursue his own. With the memory fresh in his mind, Marco grabs one of the sugar cookies with a sheet of wax paper, puts it on a small plate, and walks over to her table.

“Uhm, hi. I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Marco whispers. He doesn't want to attract too much attention and doesn't want to startle his customer.

The girl’s head snaps up, a little shocked that someone is speaking to her and takes her earbuds out. “Hi! No that's okay. I'm sorry I didn’t notice you sooner. Duty calls.” She laughs, the movement of her shoulders causing a piece of blonde hair to fall in her face, and she quickly moves to tuck it back behind her ear.

Marco returns the smile, relieved he hasn't receive a rude response for disrupting her work. “That’s alright. I just noticed you seem to be working a little hard, and don’t tell anyone, but I brought you a little something to cheer you on.” Marco hands her the plated cookie and she practically glows up at him with the widest smile at his surprise.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it.” She waits a beat before taking the plate to put on her table and extends her hand. “I’m Krista, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Marco. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

The two chat for a bit; Marco tells her that it's his bakery and she returns by telling him about her studies during her last semester of college. Marco found a friend in Krista, and the thought alone sent ripples of joy through his bones.

Eventually, Marco has to excuse himself and head back to the kitchen to help Eren with rainbow and s'mores cookies. Krista says she’ll come back again tomorrow before Marco waves goodbye. She thanks him for the cookie again on her way out the door and Marco watches as it closes behind her.

Echoes of Krista's promise to return tomorrow ring in Marco's ears like church bells. It's the first sign of a regular customer.

He feels like he's walking on clouds when he turns to walk back.

 

* * *

  

The bakery opens at seven in the morning and closes at seven at night. When 6:30pm rolls around and the bakery isn't too busy, the trio gather their cleaning supplies and start to clean up shop. Eren sweeps the kitchen and cleans the ovens when they've cooled while Armin wipes down the tables and chairs out front. Marco gathers any books that haven't been put back on the bookshelves and puts them in their right place. He mops the floor up front, cleans the windows, the window bar, and covers the register if Armin isn't finished before he is.

At 6:50pm, a man walks up to the register, five-dollar bill in hand and a bit of a nervous expression, biting his lip and keeping his free hand in his pants pocket. Marco puts on his professional smile, stands up straight and gets ready for the order to come.

“Hello sir, Welcome to The Flour Patch. What can I get for you?”

The man's fingers crinkle against the money in his fingers. “Can I have uh, a medium hot coffee with milk, sugar, and some cinnamon, if you can?”

“Of course. Will that be all?” Marco looks up from the register and sees this customer staring at him—not in an uncomfortable way but just…taking him in, he supposes. As soon as he catches his eye the customer looks down at the counter. Marco almost misses the quiet, “That's it,” the man tells him.

“That’ll be two forty-five, please.” The customer hands Marco the five and Marco gives him his change, a “Thank you, comin' right up,” and sets to work on making his coffee.

Marco fiddles around with the coffee machine, the jug of milk, sugar, and shaker of cinnamon on the counter underneath the racks of breads. He slips a jacket on the cup and sees the customer not at the register, but on Marco's far right. Marco takes a closer look and sees the man has been in the bakery for a while—he has his coat hanging over the back of a chair immediately next to one of the bookcases and a messenger bag stuffed with paper covered in indiscernible marks. Holding onto the cup of coffee, Marco moves around the counter and walks the drink over to the payer.

“Here you are, sir.” Marco’s holding his hand out to give the man his drink, and just as he’s about to turn around to return to the register, the man stops him.

“That was a nice thing you did for that girl sitting over there. With the cookie, I mean.”

Marco’s palms are beginning to get clammy and he’s a little nervous, truth be told. He doesn't want to come across like he's playing favorites, like he gives out free pastry to all of his favorite customers, because then he thinks everyone will ask for free pastry, and he can't have that. Marco isn't the best when it comes to confrontation, and he'd like to avoid it if at all possible.

“I’m, uhm, I can get you a cookie, if you want? I mean, I can’t be doing this all the time it was just a nice gesture because she looked very stressed out and I thought it’d be good if —“

“Relax relax, it’s okay, I’m not trying to get a free cookie out of you.” The man huffs in what Marco supposes is a poor attempt at a laugh, and it’s a surprisingly warm sound that goes against the sharp cut of his features. “I just thought it was a nice thing to do, that’s all. Wanted to tell you."

“Oh. Okay.” What’s he supposed to say now? 'Thanks for not ratting me out in my own store enjoy your hot beverage' and walk away? “Uhm.”

The man fiddles with the corner of the jacket on his coffee and watches his fingers fidget with the cardboard. After what Marco assumes to be an internal conversation, the customer holds out his hand, his eyes curious, and his fingers slightly trembling.

“I’m Jean, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	2. (Inspirational) Sugar Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is inspirational sugar cookies! (Brought to you by Marco Bodt and Eren Jaeger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to [kaden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gootbuttheichou) for being my beta <3
> 
> also! throughout the reading there's some links to pictures i've taken in the city that i thought would help ya visualize it a little better, so if you see one, click it! you'll see where they are and stuff.
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/hajimetxt/) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com/)

_“Jean.”_

Marco tries out his customer’s name aloud, testing the pronunciation for himself. It comes out more like “Jon” than “jschon” and his cheeks immediately grow warm in embarrassment. Jean just shrugs, seemingly used to the mispronunciation of his name, and lets it roll off his shoulders. Marco takes notice of Jean’s still outstretched right hand and slips his into Jean’s tentatively, overly conscious of the tightness of his grip. Jean’s got smooth callouses across his palm and a small one on the side of his middle finger right above the first knuckle that looks like the result of lengthy hand writing. Marco is curious—Jean seems to be not uncomfortable, but rather reserved; a bit cautious but friendly, like he's afraid to give too much into something so small.

Their hands stay together for a brief moment, moving up and down only once, until Jean lets go in favor shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Its okay, I’m used to it. No worries.” Jean’s shoulders seem to raise and his posture tenses up—not in fear, but almost as if he's cold and he's turning in on himself to keep warm. Marco doesn’t know what to make of it, teetering on deciding if Jean is just shy or overly restrained.

Marco gives him an apologetic smile. "That must get annoying after a while, no?  _Jean._ I'll keep practicing."

Jean just shrugs and turns around to grab his coat from the back of the chair. Marco notices his messenger bag is overflowing with loose papers completely littered in bright red marks. There are scratches in margins and through the lines, circles and arrows bouncing around words that are all in dark red ink. Marco can’t help but wonder what they say and what the symbols mean from what he sees of them, but not wanting to dig his grave any further by prying, he averts his eyes. Marco takes in Jean’s appearance instead; his suit, dark gray slacks and matching jacket with a sleek black button up underneath and shiny dress shoes. No tie, but he might’ve had one on earlier and had taken it off after work like his wrinkled collar suggests. He looks to the bookcase, to Eren walking back into the kitchen, to the last few customers lingering before official closing time. He wonders if maybe this is a good time to leave Jean to his devices; if Jean turning around to pack up is a sign for Marco that he should go about his business, Marco isn't about to push. He slides his right foot back, gnawing on his bottom lip, and swivels on his heel to head back to the register.

Jean folds the flop of his bag over and calls after Marco. “I’ll see you around, uhm…?”

Blinking and tilting his head, Marco wonders why Jean phrased it like an open-ended question until it hits him—he didn’t even introduce himself. The urge to slap his hand to his forehead is overwhelming, so much so that his fingers twitch, but he resists, and instead, fidgets with the pocket of his apron. "Marco. I'm Marco Bodt. I, uhm. I own the bakery."

Jean seems to consider this, nodding his head a few times and looking at the floor a few feet away. He adjusts his coat and the strap of his messenger bag across his chest and sticks his hands back into his pockets, as if they have more of a gravitational pull than the gravity keeping his feet on the floor.

Satisfied with his answer, Jean gives him an awkward wave and mumbles, "Thanks for the coffee." He faces forward when he comes to the front door, and Jean makes his way out of the bakery.

The crinkling of the tiny bells above the doors sound as Jean exits with his shoulders hunched and gaze planted no the ground. It's not until Jean walks beyond the view of the front windows and down the sidewalk until Marco answers, “You're welcome.”

 

* * *

 

Marco sweeps away the crumbs that have accumulated on the floor in front of the trash and along the counter behind the register from underneath the bread bins. Once that’s done, he Windex’s the display cases, removes every tray of pastry from inside so he can clean them, and waits a few minutes to put them back in. He puts his hands on his hips and inhales, accidentally breathing in loose flour, which causes him to sneeze and furiously rub his nose. He lets the air rush out from between his lips in one quick puff and looks around the store—some books are left on the coffee table and some of the furniture had been rearranged from the steady stream of people moving throughout the day. He moves to go put them back in their place when Eren's voice echoes to the front of the bakery.

"Hey Marco, you okay?"

Eren's head pops out from the doorway of the kitchen. Smudges of flour cling to the edges of his hair and the end of one of his eyebrows, but Marco isn't in the mood to make fun of him for it. Marco shelves the last of the books and walks back behind the register."Yeah, I'm alright. Just feel a little weird, I guess." 

Eren's full body emerges behind the register and he walks over to lean against the countertop. "What's eating you, Gilbert Grape?"

It's a question Marco doesn't really have an answer to; he's perfectly fine physically aside from being tired, he's not feeling sick or sad or emotionally compromised. "Off" is the only word Marco can think to use, and when says it to Eren, Eren nods his head and drums his fingers against his arm. 

"Well," Eren starts, standing up straight and going back where he came from. "Let's finish up and go home to get some sleep, yeah? You've earned it, Muffin Man. Good job today." 

Eren's praise lifts Marco's spirits considerably, and with his usual enthusiasm, sweeps the last of the break room and returns the last of the books to their shelves. 

Armin tucks fly-away wisps of hair behind his ear and sees Eren returning to the back of the bakery, whistling and grabbing their bags from the lockers in the break room. With his arms crossed and leaning against the doorway, Armin raises an eyebrow. “Look at you being all comforting. What have you done with my boyfriend?"

Eren sticks his tongue out at Armin and grins. “Oh he's here alright, don't worry."

"Hmm, I'm not so sure." Armin walks over to heave his coat on and grab his backpack from Eren. "Although I'm sure Marco appreciated what you said to him. That was nice."

Eren bumps his shoulder against Armin and wiggles his eyebrows. "Does that mean if I calm down more agitated Bodts I get more kisses?”

Armin puts a finger to his chin and looks at the ceiling, feigning contemplation. He looks back at Eren, one finger in the air and a bright smile on his lips like this is the happiest news Eren will ever hear. “No.” Retying his hair and smirking as he goes, Armin closes his locker and goes to wait for Marco in the kitchen with Eren running after him, pouting and muttering, “No fair” before Armin indulges him.

The last few people that had occupied the chairs by the small library and the bar leave just shy of two minutes before closing with farewells of a good night and the promise of returning tomorrow. Eren and Armin take care of the trash from the bins in the front and bring the bags to the dumpster out back while Marco wipes down the countertop and the register one final time.

One arm holding the pile of books Marco has gathered from chairs and tables and the other making room on the bookshelf, Marco begins returning the books to their places. Its midway through stacking that he finds himself humming. Marco has always tried to be in a pleasant mood as much as he can and normally does a good job of doing so. He’s been told by many people in the most random of places—from cashiers at supermarkets, to the older gentleman at the neighboring deli—how chipper he is and how unusual it is that he's  _always_ happy. He did try suppressing it at first, thinking that it might make some angry for reasons he'll never know. Of course, he gave up trying to suppress it after a while, and instead, chose to channel that happiness into his profession and give it to everyone else.

The humming becomes infectious, and when Marco hears Eren join in across the room, he finally places a name to the tune. Eren folds his arms and groans.

“Really, Marco? The Goo Goo Dolls?”

“You were humming it too, don't think I didn't hear you.” Eren started to laugh and shake his head, and Marco playfully pushing Eren’s shoulder as he walked past him to go into the back. Marco could hear Eren yelling after him, “ _Name_ is so cheesy, pick a better one next time!” He simply told Armin to make sure to download the song to Eren’s iPod later when they returned home, to which Armin stifled a laugh and agreed. 

 

* * *

 

Jean isn't sure what to make of him on his way out of the bakery.

The owner, Marco—he has a name for him now—is probably happier than any human being had a right to be. All the time Jean was sitting in the chair with his manuscripts, he would look up and see Marco serving a customer or going into the back to bake, and every time he had a smile on his face. Jean almost felt his own cheeks start to ache in sympathy pain.

Observing the habitats of the bakery didn't exactly prove to be as productive as Jean had hoped, but mostly because he'd refused to focus. His work schedule has been too busy for such lack of concentration: Connie and his team are behind on the cover art of another one of the five novels Jean’s currently undertaken, they have a meeting scheduled for Sasha and Connie to pitch that cover and the manuscript to sales, and the paperwork for more author contracts for their division is starting to grow at enormous rates. 

Jean's only saving grace earlier in the day was the cake in the break-room refrigerator that was to be shared amongst the three of them. When Jean took his lunch break to have a slice, he walked in on Sasha and Connie, face and fingers covered in frosting, and the entire cake demolished. Jean's face fell, his only hope for motivation eaten away, and he'd bumped his head against the table at the sight.

From the tabletop, Jean's muffled protests fell on unsympathetic ears."Why do you guys have to destroy everything good in this world?"

“Why don’t you go buy one for yourself instead?” Sasha cooed as she licked frosting from the corner of her mouth.

Jean just rolled his eyes and walked out of the break room back to his desk, shouting to the sugar-hyped friends behind him, “Too far.”

“Oh come on, Jeany boy.” Connie hopped off the break room counter and jogged after Jean. “Don’t be mad. You know Sash is a food vacuum. Ain’t nothin’ new.”

The swivel chair squeaked in protest at Jean’s hard plop on the seat as he spun once, twice, thrice, until he stopped to see Connie perched on the corner of his desk, biting on the end of one of Jean’s pencils. Connie knew how much Jean hated that, but it was too much fun annoying his best friend. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, Jean, go to that bakery. It’s really… _sweet._ ”

“Will you shut _up_ with your shit jokes, Con?” Jean grabbed the pencil from Connie’s mouth and ignored the whines of protest.

“They’re funny and you know it.”

Jean had closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, trying his best to keep from falling asleep on his keyboard and wishing for the day to be over—he’s got three more manuscripts to look over, none of which will be quick to get through. Two out of three are incredibly long and need a ridiculous amount of changes. Jean's written notes to take out almost six whole chapters, and that's just for one of them. Needless to say, visiting a bakery was not something on his list of priorities, especially when Connie was behind.

Connie had been quiet, which was always a sign that something was up, and when Jean opened his eyes to see if he was still there, he merely sighed. 

Connie had been looking out the window, staring into the floors of buildings across the street at the employees scrambling around in their own offices. He was a little lost in thought about a lot of things at one time—about the work he’s a bit behind on, on the font he still has to figure out for that mystery book without making it seem like a horror novel—when he remembered he was still sitting on Jean’s desk. He looked down just as Jean opened his eyes, and, pushing away his worries for a second to focus on his friend, Connie smiled and flicked Jean’s forehead.

“Forget the cake.” Connie hopped off the desk edge and stuck his hands into his pants pockets, sneakers squeaking against the floor. “At least go grab a cup of coffee there. You might need it later for those manuscripts.”

Jean couldn’t help but smile at Connie’s shoes. He’d always changed them as soon as he came into the office because the dress shoes were too uncomfortable for him. Of course, when his supervisor and team coordinator made an appearance, he’d change back into them so fast he’d hit his head against his computer monitor. Everyone in the office knew of his sneakers, though. He was quite famous for them, and how could he not be—no one _else_ was willing to look like an idiot wearing cross trainers with a pressed suit and tie.

Connie was just turning around the corner of Jean’s large cubicle when Jean grumbled and called out, “What’s the name of this bakery?”

He just poked his head over the side, smirked, and said, “The Flour Patch.”

 

* * *

 

Jean stops on the corner of 23rd Street and 6th Avenue outside of the bakery to chance a glance at his watch—it’s already ten after seven. He debates on whether to wait for the subway or not, but decides the weather isn’t too horrible and he doesn’t really mind walking the eleven blocks to Penn Station; he reasons exercise could be nice after sitting in a chair all day. He downs the rest of his coffee from the bakery, taking a last look at the flowery logo, and tosses the cup in the trash bin on the corner. The heels of his work shoes click on the dirtied pavement and Jean ignores someone trying to sell him a newspaper. He crosses the street and makes his way down 6th Avenue toward 34th Street.

It’s when he walks alone in silence, no ear buds in his ears playing songs he's tired of or an angry client on the phone screaming in his ear, that Jean tries to take the time to not think about anything if he can help it. Such happenings are few and far between, but when the rare occasion presents itself, Jean takes full advantage.

Try as he may, it’s hard not to think of the lingering taste of smooth coffee still on his tongue. He sighs to himself and digs his free hand further into his pocket, fiddling with a the cap of his pen.

( _To resist:_ _to withstand, strive against, or oppose.)_

 

* * *

 

Jean P. Kirschtein was one of those kids growing up that everyone envied because he always knew what he wanted to be; or at least, knew what field he wanted to work in. He didn’t grow up wanting to be an astronaut or a veterinarian or even a policeman like some of the other kids he knew. He wanted to be something everyone else thought to be far less exciting—he wanted to be a professional reader. While other kids had dreams of being scientists and floating in space, or fighting crime and defending justice, Jean dreamt about books and never leaving their pages. He didn’t realize that being a professional reader wasn’t an actual occupation, but he decided that because he loved it so much, he’d _make it_ a job. Little Jean always was the best reader in his class and everyone knew it. He fondly remembers those charts his teachers would keep on the walls with gold stars next to all their names for every book each student had read. There was always a goal set in place of twenty-five books to be read by each of them by the time the year was finished. Jean reached his twenty-five two months after school started.

He doesn’t like to admit it, but Jean knows it’s because of this, his increasing love for books and reading them, that friends were hard to come by. He’d sit in the corner of the playground where it was quiet, his nose in a book he grabbed from the small cubby in class, and nobody would disturb him. Added to his disinterest in mingling with the others, reading didn’t exactly give him the outlet he needed to make friends.

There was one boy, only one, that ever spoke to Jean and asked about his books and if he thought they were fun to read. He was nice to Jean and sometimes even read with him in his corner of the playground. 

He moved and had to transfer schools after the third week of class. Jean never saw him after that.

He was alone most of the time and made fun of, but Jean learned to not let everyone get to him too much and continued to harbor his love for books. There was just something about living the life of someone else for a short while, of learning things about their world and the people they knew that made Jean calmer, made him happy. It was a change of scenery that Jean needed—sometimes desperately—without doing much of anything but flipping pages every few minutes. But reading wasn’t just browsing another world for an hour and nonchalantly skimming through pages—reading was his favorite thing to do, was the only thing he _wanted_ to do. Books were Jean’s way of transporting himself through time and every other plane of existence through words on a page, and it was the only experience he ever wanted the pleasure of knowing. Books were his safety net when his parents argued, when his mother would throw mostly empty bottles at the walls, when he had no other way of blocking out his father’s poor and weakened attempts to reason with her. Hundreds of pages provided a refuge for Jean when he had no one else to turn to or nowhere else to go; they consoled him, they gave him a way out, and he thanked them by continuing to read everything he could get his hands on and appreciating their value. He grew thick skin, was that one quiet kid no one spoke to, and he had a heart of gold—he just never got a chance to show it.

Things weren’t always bad, though, and sometimes his books gave him a means of connecting with his father. When he’d come across a word he didn’t know, he’d ask him for the meaning and write it down in messy, loose handwriting into a notebook full of definitions. He carried the book everywhere he went and for every new word he heard that fascinated him, he wrote it down and always told it to his father in car rides, over dinner, in the bathtub. He was a pipe that was constantly bursting and spewing words that were so terribly intriguing, and sometimes he’d find one neither of his parents knew—those were the best words. It became a game between them; for every big word Jean knew how to spell and define, he’d get points. The point value was determined by how many letters it had and how difficult his father thought it was. The points would accumulate and when he’d reach one hundred, Victor Kirschtein would treat his very curious son to ice cream at Maggie Moo’s, a homemade ice creamery along Bell Boulevard in their borough of Queens. It was famous for their electric blue cotton candy flavor, and that was the only thing Jean got every time—two scoops in a cup to go. Victor liked the coconut. 

The older he became, the less the point game mattered, and eventually it stopped altogether. Jean’s mother meant well on occasion, and Jean knew it, but she constantly came up empty when it came to her son. The only empty she was concerned with was that of her glass, and his father did the best he could to shield Jean away from her when he was home to do so. She didn’t know how to relate to her only child outside of books and words and any other form of linguistics that weren’t her strong suit, and ultimately, she stopped trying until she stopped altogether. It hurt, it hurt a _lot_ , but he didn’t know how else to approach her. He didn’t know how to tell her he loved her and how much he wished she would stop trying to find herself at the bottom of a bottle, how much better he wished things could be and how sorry he was for hating her as much as he loved her. Jean’s father was the last person out of everyone who cared about Jean and what he loved. The attention he gave him wasn’t nearly enough and they both knew it; Victor’s hands were full with two jobs that broke his back and wore away the cartilage in his knees and had a wife that was irresponsible and blind to the destruction she caused. Still, Jean knew how hard he worked, how much he cared and how much he bended over backwards as much as he could for them. 

Jean’s reading only increased throughout his middle and high school careers, and he was nearly always absorbed in a book. The aspects of a story, the unexpected twists and turns, the beauty of being able to imagine a whole other world, simply from a bunch of ink these pages absorbed—that’s what he found fascinating, and it’s because of this that it was hard to _not_ read. Jean couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else with his life. 

Not everyone found the beauty in novels and poetry and short stories, and when Jean finally mustered up the courage to tell his parents simultaneously that he was going to major in English, his mother nearly had a stroke. Expectations were high for Jean, and being an English major did not meet the expectations placed upon him. Elizabeth Kirschtein thought English was too broad a major: there was nothing specific about it, and because of that non-specificity, there was “no demand in the market,” or so he was supposed to believe. It was assumed that if there was a demand for a specific job in a specific field, that’s what Jean would have to do because the money was bound to be good; that was the only thing his mother was concerned about. Too broad of a profession brings more competition, and more competition means less chance for a position. Elizabeth believed in the definite and ignored the possible. So he gave in. Instead of reading and delving into every literary aspect he could submerge himself in, Jean read books on computer science. He’d check out books on algorithms, the creation of software—anything relating to computers that the library had in the technology section. The jobs were good and the image of him exploring technology sated his mother.

However much Jean wanted to please his mother, those books were just for show. Jean went into college an English major, Jean studied his entire four years as an English major, and it wasn’t until the day of his graduation did he reveal his degree to be in that of English and not computer science, like he led his parents to believe.

After the president of his university had announced his name and his degree in English, and after Jean had walked off the stage from receiving his diploma and a picture with the president, Jean walked up to his parents with the biggest smile he’d ever worn in front of either of them. 

Elizabeth slapped him so hard across the face that for the remainder of the day and half of the next, the sting of the impact was stubborn against his skin like a branded punishment.

Jean was bruised, but even so, he felt powerfully triumphant.

After his mother had stormed off, his father waited until her back was turned so he could give his son the strongest hug he could muster. Victor made sure to congratulate him over and over; in French, in English, in a mix of the two. Victor knew the entire time of his not being true to computer science or anything related, but he played blind because he knew it was what his son really wanted. He silently encouraged Jean throughout the years, cheering him on and hoping for the best. Victor made sure to pat Jean’s cheeks twice before making sure any trace of the tears he shed were gone as he walked away to catch up with Elizabeth. 

_“I’m so proud of you. Go on to do great things like I know you will.”_

That was the last time he spoke to either of his parents. He still misses his father terribly, but Jean knows that if he were to go back, next to nothing positive would come from it.

He doesn’t mind though; the feeling of letting his mother down based entirely on his choice in career and his passion for books is enough to reassure him that what he did was the right thing. 

(He used to search for hours through dictionaries and thesauruses and even encyclopedias in the hopes that he’d find a better way to say “I’m sorry.”

He never found anything.)

 

* * *

 

Penn Station’s surging [crowds](https://38.media.tumblr.com/0da26527e63dca25b78dcd9dbc02a493/tumblr_nf0htvaKcx1qcyg51o9_1280.jpg) are relentless. There are times when the sea of people dissipates and you have room to breathe for all of two seconds, but the other ninety-five percent of the time, the stuffy terminal is packed like a can of sardines. Peak, off peak, it doesn’t matter—there will always be a surging crowd of people. Tourists can be easily spotted among the crowd, standing inconveniently in the middle, blocking everyone’s way because they have no idea how the tracks and train lines work. Native New Yorkers already know the drill as if it were second nature to breathing. After working in the city for six years, Jean’s got the New York etiquette down to a science—he’s memorized the peak and off peak hours and their rates according to station, learned which lines go to which parts of New York, and what cars typically have less people in them at certain times. As soon as he’s down the escalator off [7th Avenue](https://33.media.tumblr.com/079feb6c1addddf7a7a85cf6afca265e/tumblr_nf0htvaKcx1qcyg51o4_250.jpg) and [34th Street](https://33.media.tumblr.com/58b1962dd19164a31e65b01c33befe63/tumblr_nf0htvaKcx1qcyg51o3_1280.jpg), he makes his way to the long board of [town names](https://38.media.tumblr.com/d36c520fdde2b4b539919a0614a554a3/tumblr_nf0htvaKcx1qcyg51o7_400.jpg) in search for his own. The giant list dominates the wall above the information windows, four of which are open and harboring uninterested and seemingly unfriendly employees who look like being there is causing them more pain than a child at the dentist.

Jean searches for the Bayside station and sees it on the far left. Not only is it on Track 15, but as luck would have it, it’s leaving in exactly two minutes. 

“Shit!” Holding tighter onto his bag, he runs through an already disoriented crowd to try and get to Track 15. “Come on, come on, come on,” Jean mutters to himself as the congested group of people tries to funnel their way down the stairs. Jean is bouncing on the balls of his feet, impatience getting the better of him, because if he doesn’t make this train, the next one doesn’t come for another fifty minutes and he _really_ just wants to get home.

This is the part he hates; in all of New York City, _this_ is where its citizens show their true colors. It’s said that New Yorkers are habitually coldhearted, impatient, and, for the most part, self-absorbed, and it’s in this very instance that all of the above is, in fact, true. Smaller women are squeezing their way past taller men, old women are using their canes to “accidentally” halt the people in front of them by stomping the bottom of their canes onto people’s feet. Penn Station is a war zone, and Jean hates this more than anything else in all of Manhattan. It’s when a very large, very sweaty man, who’s wheezing and breathing down his neck, presses _right_ against Jean’s back and pushes him forward with his bulging belly. Jean loses his balance for a minute and elects not to pay this man any mind. He pushes Jean again and can swear he feels this man’s sweat permeate through the back of his jacket. When Jean almost trips over a mother trying to wheel her baby carriage down the flight of steps, Jean's patience fizzles. He’s not going to find a seat at this rate if this crowd doesn’t move _,_ and he’d really not rather stand in the car for the thirty-minute ride. Inhaling as much air as he can without getting nauseous, Jean pushes past the middle-aged woman with a carriage and very petulantly shoves his way down the stairs. He thinks to himself that maybe middle-aged women should not be carting a carriage down a flight of stairs in Penn Station of all places, but shrugs it off and slides into the first train car he can get into before the doors close. He makes it by mere seconds and watches through the scratched plastic window in the door as the faces fall of people who didn’t make it onto a [car](https://31.media.tumblr.com/5f3a2afdf39711eeda529e1d1ca0416b/tumblr_nf0hvnYAFO1qcyg51o4_400.jpg) in time _._ Turning his attention to inside the train, Jean sees peak hours staying true to their high volume of passengers. On his left is a row of [two-seaters](https://38.media.tumblr.com/d3ec7ff33b3e7b7e5dcc1a6a150a93f9/tumblr_nf0hvnYAFO1qcyg51o1_400.jpg), and on his right, a row of [three-seaters](https://31.media.tumblr.com/2e66c042ef4b9387c0f0e26b3fa39a24/tumblr_nf0htvaKcx1qcyg51o10_1280.jpg). New Yorkers, being sticklers for personal space in the third-seaters, mostly occupy the seat by the window and the aisle seat, leaving the awkward middle one vacant. If they can help it, no one sits next to each other. It’s his luck that these are the only seats available and he notices that some people have chosen to stand by the sliding doors instead of sitting in them.

 _Fuck it,_ Jean thinks to himself as he walks down the aisle and awkwardly maneuvers his way over someone’s cramped legs and into a middle seat, muttering half-hearted apologies and making little effort to mind his briefcase. The train car jolts, causing Jean to fall back into his seat rather unceremoniously, and he grumbles at the lack of space. After more shuffling and trying to get as comfortable as the tight bench will allow, Jean slides his briefcase between his ankles and holds it there between his feet. He’d put it on the suitcase rack above him, but after a previous instance where someone had taken his bag by accident, he doesn’t trust it anymore and keeps his belongings close to his person. He listens to the train car giving its speech about the stops and listens for the first one, hearing the automated machine say, “ _This is the train to: Port Washington. The next station is: Woodside._ ” There's some time until the train reaches his station, so he settles in his seat and closes his eyes. The automated machine continues with, “ _As you leave the train, please step over the gap between the train and the platform,”_ and Jean would groan if he was by himself because he’s practically memorized this speech, and the more he hears it, the more ingrained in his brain it becomes. Thankfully, the bright red letters on the first [wall separation](https://33.media.tumblr.com/57eb377032933181af2d85d825c7e1d6/tumblr_nf0hvnYAFO1qcyg51o2_400.jpg) in the car displays WOODSIDE and the mechanized talking ceases. The train car falls into silence with fatigue from long days of work and sightseeing under everyone’s belt, and Jean is thankful for the lack of obnoxious people in this car. 

The quietness of the train car elicits a curiosity in Jean as he looks around at the faces of the exhausted. Someone at the very end of the car is snoring, several people are reading, most have headphones on and are either rocking their heads to the beat or sleeping to the notes. As he looks around at the faces of people he’s likely to never see again, he wonders about their lives; which ones are homophobic, which ones have a sick parent, questions like that. Does that teenager really like her hair blue, or did she do it just to rebel against her parents? Does she have parents? Why blue hair and not green? Is the man sitting seven rows in front of him really reading the contents on his laptop or is he thinking of something else? Is he married? Is he thinking about his wife? Or maybe he has a husband. Maybe he’s single. Maybe he’s always wanted to be a dad but never had the opportunity. Jean continues to look around the car, and when he’s bored with creating lives for people he doesn’t even know the names to, he looks over the body of the person sleeping to his right and out the keyed-up window.

Jean beings to wonder if the lights casting a reflection on everything the train passes bothers the residents of the houses it falls upon. Does the burst of light in their windows annoy them, or are they used to it by now? Do they know the nighttime schedule of the trains and know when to turn away so they’re not shocked into cardiac arrest? Do they know the clock-work timing of this sudden burst of light in their living rooms and bedrooms and kitchens so well that they know the precise _second_ to shut the shades until it passes? Maybe they don’t even notice it anymore. Maybe they’re so accustomed to this stream of light that shines in their window off the train for no more than a solid minute as the train goes about its route. Maybe they used to be scared by it but aren’t anymore because it became something familiar.

 _(Familiar:_ _well-acquainted; thoroughly conversant; intimate)._

Jean hopes that the light doesn’t bother these people, that they’re comfortable in their homes or that they find somewhere else to live where the light doesn’t bother them and they can enjoy the darkness in peace without interruption. 

It’s when they pass the Corona station that a man sitting directly in front of Jean gets a phone call. Jean’s half listening and half not caring, but during this phone call, Jean hears him use a word that sounds like “sangria.” It’s not until he uses it again that he confirms it to be “sanguine.” His eyebrows raise and he decides he likes the sound of it. He whispers it to himself quietly, enjoying the languid flow of it on his tongue and in speech. Sliding his tongue over his top teeth and rolling his shoulders so he has more room in his coat to move around, Jean reaches into his briefcase for his book, all the while internally repeating _sanguine, sanguine, sanguine,_ so he doesn’t forget it.

Jean still keeps a little black book with him at all times to jot down interesting words and finds their definitions as soon as he’s in front of a computer; only now he fills it, too, with story ideas and titles and various phrases that he finds pleasing to the ear. It’s small, no bigger than the size of his hand, and is never away from his person. He makes sure to date the pages in the top right corner for every entry, more for record keeping purposes than formality, and occasionally flips through the pages to see what he’s collected since he started writing in it.

Jean leans to one side to retrieve his ever-present pen, choosing to ignore the grunts of discomfort coming from the man sitting to his left, and fishes it out from the depths of his coat pocket. The pages between his fingers are familiar and laced with tens upon tens of words and ideas that might never come to fruition, but are comforting to read. They give Jean a sort of odd satisfaction, and writing them down is like writing in a piece of himself; he’s in those pages with those words, playing with their sounds and threading ideas into sentences. To anyone else it would seem like such a small pleasure, but to Jean, it’s the world. 

When he gets to the page he wrote on last, he scribbles the date in the right corner underneath his previous entry as best as he can against the jostling of the train.

_3/12/14_

_Sanguine:_

 

* * *

 

Jean gets off the train at the Bayside station in Queens and hops on the Q27 bus to 73rd Avenue, where he gets off a block away from his apartment. When he gets through the first set of doors to the lobby, warm air rushes into his face, pushing his bangs back and ruffling his hair. He’s too tired to fix it. He checks his small mailbox on the wall, sees nothing inside, and opens the second set of doors to step into the cramped lobby. Jean takes all of three seconds to debate between the stairs or the elevator until he remembers that it’s a decrepit and has not ever been fixed since he’s lived in the building, and opts for the four flights of stairs.

Heading up to his fourth floor apartment, Jean drags his feet and tries not to notice how out of breath he is by the time he reaches his door. His briefcase is left forgotten on the coffee table, his shoes haphazardly kicked in unknown directions, and Jean is much too lazy to hang up his coat, so he lets it drop off his shoulders and onto the floor. Microwavable Campbell’s soup curbs his hunger for the remainder of the evening, even though it’s a quarter to nine and he knows he should probably not be eating so late. His briefcase taunts him and tries to coax him into being productive with the manuscripts that need attention, but Jean can’t fight the heavy droop of his eyelids and the weight of his limbs dragging him down. Exhaustion is pulling at every inch of his body and he knows from experience that editing while overtired is counterproductive and nothing significant will get accomplished. Jean pats the top of his briefcase in apology and does a last minute computer check of social media, emails, and dictionary.com. He decides to disregard clothing altogether and passes out on top of his comforter in nothing but his boxers. 

When he wakes up the next morning at 5:30am on the button, he doesn’t remember dreaming of cinnamon coffee and overflowing bookshelves. But he feels warm, and it's not from the radiator or the sun coming through the window.

Jean goes to shower and start his day, and before he leaves his house, he makes sure to have a five-dollar bill at the ready in his coat pocket.

 

* * *

 

_3/12/14_

_Sanguine: optimistic._

 

* * *

 

That customer has not come back. Marco’s nearly forgotten his name, thinking it to have been John on more than several occasions, until he remembers that was how he had wrongly pronounced it the night he met him and it was _Jean_. He looks for him sometimes, stealing glances out of the frosty front windows of the bakery, or seeing if he can spot him in a crowd he knows he’s not in. Marco often finds himself oddly curious and wonders why he's so fixated on someone he only met once for five minutes. He treats all his customers with the utmost respect and kindness and makes sure to do right by them as a provider of not only his service, but of a comforting environment. He did exactly that for the Jean guy, but he hasn't come back since that night. Marco knows he did nothing wrong, but he still can't help but think if there was something he missed.

As he hears exams are fast approaching from the students that frequent his bakery from nearby colleges, Marco decides to try and give some sort of happiness to them in a world of stress. He purchases a stand-up chalkboard and colorful chalk to advertise the special of the day and discounts for students. Eren decorates the board with small cartoon characters he calls “titans." The sign today reads, _Coffee half off and pastries buy-one-get-one free for students with active student ID cards!_ Eren’s titan figures, two bulky muscular looking mutants, swing from the words he writes. Armin is in charge of looking it over before Eren shows it to Marco to display. Just to be fair, makes Eren draw a female titan, too. The three of them find Eren’s design to be strange but cute, even if Eren needs to work on his hair drawing skills, and the sign sits right next to the front steps of the bakery.

Marco even starts to bake [inspirational cookies](https://33.media.tumblr.com/ca97fd68ef594269dcd0d504ac374716/tumblr_nf0ke3a6By1qcyg51o1_500.jpg) with the help of his two companions that have messages on them like _Good luck, students!, You can do it!,_ and _TFP believes in you!_ Marco has to stop Eren at one point because instead of saying encouraging things, Eren pipes on a few cookies: _Don’t die this week!, Hang in there champ, #HellWeek2k14_ and _Oy Vey_. Marco allows the _Hang in there champ_ and hell week cookies to be the only two displayed after the other ones were sold. Eren makes 24 more of them. Each. Marco doesn’t dare admit they sell much better than the ones he came up with. Armin stays out of it because he doesn’t like picking sides, but discreetly kisses Eren for the popularity of his cookies.

Krista, the student who Marco had first given a cookie to for encouragement, always visits the bakery at least twice a week and has become a friend. When she came in one morning before her first class, she had seen the inspirational cookies in the display case and gushed over them to Armin at the register. Marco had heard her from the kitchen and temporarily abandoned his station to say good morning and introduce her to Armin, who took to her right away. She showed Marco her student ID and left the bakery that morning with a cup of coffee and two inspirational cookies—one of Marco’s and one of Eren’s. The cookies, Marco decided, will always be baked during exam weeks. When Eren heard this, he scribbled on a loose piece of paper with a cap-less pen the phrases to use on his cookies for next time:  _Send Help, I don’t care anymore, I give up, #FixFAFSA._  

Whether it was because of the discounts or the cookies, Armin’s friendly chatter or Marco’s slips of support or Eren’s table service, more people begin to come in and the more they do, the busier the bakery becomes. The seats are quick to fill up and within minutes, textbooks litter table space, on the arm rests of chairs and across the keyboards of laptops. Every morning before the doors even open at seven, a line that wraps around the corner forms at the front door, with Krista usually being the third or fourth person waiting. She always waves at Armin through the frosty windows if she catches his eye, and soon, Armin finds himself looking for her and waving back. Eren is the last person Krista meets; she's introduced to Eren one morning, who took over the register in place of Armin as he works on piping a specific design for a wedding cake order that came in several days before.

After serving three people, Eren turned to the next customer, a very petite blonde with eyes that he thought were almost as blue as Armin’s. He put on a smile, making sure to flash his pearly whites that can be seen for miles, and cheerily greeted her with, “Good morning, welcome to The Flour Patch! What can I get you today, ma’am?”

“Good morning! Can I please have a medium French vanilla coffee with milk and sugar? Aaaand I’ll take two of the inspirational cookies as well. The _Oy Vey_ one and the _TFP Believes in you!_ one.”

Eren smirked at yet another one of his cookies being sold. “You got it.” 

Eren busied himself with getting her order ready, pouring just enough coffee into her cup to leave room for the right amount of milk. “Do you take it light?”

“Yes, please.”

He nodded his head in acknowledgement, had her drink ready in no time and placed it on the counter while he went to fetch the cookies.

“Have you always worked here? I know Armin is usually on the register in the mornings. I’ve never seen someone else up front besides him and Marco.”

“Ah yeah, I’ve been here with the both of them since it opened.” Eren’s voice echoed inside the display case as he reached in with tongs to retrieve her two cookies. “I’m usually in the back doing the heavy stuff. I hardly ever get to come up here.”

Krista covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, worried that she offended him. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn't mean to be rude.”

Eren just laughed and gently placed the bag of cookies next to her coffee cup, punching in the price on the register after she showed him her student ID. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m up here today, that’s what counts. I’m Eren, by the way.”

“Krista. Nice to meet you.” 

“Same here.” He looked at her and smiled again, half to be polite and half to be friendly, and decided he liked her. “That’ll be $2.23 total, Miss Krista.”

She dug around in her pocket for the exact change she sets aside every morning just for this, and paid with hands full.

“Do you want a receipt?”

“Nope, you can keep it. I know you guys aren’t ripping me off by now.” 

Eren laughed and gave her a little wave as she turned to leave with her goods. “Have a good day!” 

“You too, bread boy!” 

 _Bread boy?_ Eren only tilted his head to the side, wondering why she called him such a name, but only had three seconds to think it over before the next customer was ready to be greeted. It wasn’t until later that night when they were cleaning up for the day that he asked Marco about her and Marco told him he called him that when he spoke to Krista one of the first few times. Eren jut his lip and Marco laughed. 

With the cookies being bigger of a hit than Marco thought, he decided to be a little more generous. Sometimes The Flour Patch offers extended hours on Saturdays beyond the seven o’clock closing time to students who are studying or people who have work to be done and need a quiet place that was open a little later. Marco only lives upstairs, and since it’s never too dreadfully busy that he needs his coworkers, he lets Eren and Armin go home once their stations are clean and hangs back alone. If anything, it offers Marco more time to spend in his little sanctuary, which he loves to do regardless. He sits behind the counter with a book, makes a cup of tea, and helps the few customers who stick around. Ten o'clock is his limit and his patrons always thank him profusely for his generosity and kindness and wish him a good night, which he always reciprocates. It fills him with a bubbly feeling to know he makes a difference in someone’s life, even if only for the day. It’s a nice thing to think about, and if Marco gets only a few hours of sleep before he has to wake up bright and early the next morning to bake the breads at 5:30, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. This is what he lives for.

But that man Jean hasn’t come back. It's been a just under a month since he saw him, and Jean hasn't shown up again.

Marco keeps looking, but each day is as the last.

 

* * *

  

Marco J. Bodt is not one to get frustrated very easily.

In the days after they had met and held conversation for all of three minutes, that initial intrigue still nags at the back of his head. Maybe it was the compliment Jean had given him for being nice to Krista or the awkward exit, but something was...different. Marco still can't put his finger on it. He's curious and he doesn't even have a solid reason why.

He's frustrated  _because_ he's curious. Marco knows himself to be a very simple person: he doesn't need much to be happy and he doesn't require extravagant things to be satisfied. Marco is a creature of immense simplicity, and because he doesn't need a lot to be happy, something needs to be significant enough to disrupt that happiness. And he supposes Jean is it.

Marco isn't frustrated with Jean: he's frustrated at his own inquisitiveness because he's never really had it when it comes to a person. Armin and Eren were very straightforward when he met them, and they're even more so now that they're his coworkers and his close friends. They're familiar and comforting, and above all, something a little like home.

But Jean is different. Jean is entirely new and Marco knows absolutely nothing about him besides the pronunciation of his first name that he can't even get right. Jean seemed reserved when Marco met him—friendly enough to be polite, but not enough to initiate something more solid.

 _Maybe_ , Marco thinks to himself,  _I'm just overthinking this. He could just be any other customer who stopped in here one day for a cup of coffee and told me what I did for Krista was a nice thing to do. Maybe that's all it was._

Ultimately, Marco wipes any traces of these thoughts from his mind and does what he can to focus on the every day, even though he still hopes Jean will come back one day soon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Because of the long work day, Marco gives Eren and Armin an hour and fifteen minutes for lunch, which is way more than either of them need, but the work is taxing and a break is always nice. They’re allowed to take the break whenever, but only one at a time and preferably not at the busiest times of day—it’s just the three of them and Marco can’t run it all by himself.

Eren takes his break first today at two in the afternoon after the lunch rush. After wolfing down his sandwich and the biggest bottle of raspberry Snapple he promptly passes out on what’s been dubbed as “Armin’s couch.” While he snoozes, Marco’s working on three things at one time: he’s got three individual cakes to be stacked for the rainbow cookies, the biggest mixer in the kitchen is under his fingertips as he makes a double batch of chocolate chip cookies, and here and there he’s working on piping the filling for the cream puffs.

Armin looks over at Marco from the doorway of the kitchen and watches him mix the cookie dough, stack the rainbow cookie layers, pipe filling into the empty cream puffs. He knows how much this bakery, how much baking means to him, but Armin wishes that Marco would allow himself a break once in a while. Running a bakery is a lot of work, true, and Marco knew what he was getting into when he opened the bakery, also true. But Marco's sleep schedule isn't the best and the bakery is only closed on Sundays. Armin helps out where he can and he strongly admires Marco’s willpower and passion for his job, but he would like to see him rest for a bit, too.

Armin watches as Marco walks to the back room and back out after washing his hands, carrying a water bottle. He’s biting at the nail on his left ring finger, pulling away to assess the damage before going back to biting. Armin thinks it’s time for it to stop and to help Marco with whatever’s bothering him. 

“Hey, Marco?” Armin calls out, but it goes unnoticed as Marco washes his hands again and layers the first sheet cake for the rainbow cookies with a thin layer of jelly. He puts on the second sheet, puts jelly on top of that one, and the last sheet on top before he begins to coat the sheets in melted chocolate.

Armin cups his hands around his mouth and says much louder, “Marco!” and this time he hears him. Well, he _more_ than hears him because he jumps just shy of a foot in the air and drops the thin metal cutter he was using to cut the cookie shapes. He looks up at Armin with an expression that can’t be compared to anything else besides a deer in the headlights, and Armin can’t help but giggle.

“You were spacing out there, had to bring you back to Earth.” Armin’s giggles subside and he steps forward after a brief glance at the register to make sure the front doesn’t demand his attention right this second. “You okay?” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine!” Marco runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, m’fine, why?” He’s trying to calm down his heartbeat and scratches at his nose, which Armin knows means he’s a little frazzled, so he waits until Marco has calmed down some before he continues.

“Nothing, I just—I’ve noticed you seem a little…off, lately? And I just wanted to let you know that if you want to talk or anything I’m here for you. Eren too, although we both know he’s not very good with words in most situations.”

This brings on a small laugh from Marco, which Armin will take, and Marco drops both hands to his sides, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

“Mm. I don’t know, I’ve just been a little on edge lately, I guess. Which doesn’t make much sense because everything’s going really smoothly.”

Armin bites his lip, unsure of what to say with a response as vague as Marco's, so he lets the silence sit between them, comfortable on the bakery counters. He pipes the cream puffs while waiting for the melted chocolate to dry on the rainbow cookie sheet, and Armin watches his practiced hands at work.

“You’re unbelievable," Marco mumbles around the piping bag. And Armin is almost sure he imagined it.

But Marco turns toward Armin, a small smile on his lips in admiration. "You’re unbelievable. How observant you are. You always know when something’s wrong, even if no one says anything.”

Armin exhales a laugh plays with the hem of his black work uniform. “Future psychologist, at your service.”

Marco's about to start cutting the one-inch rectangles for the rainbow cookies as soon as the bell chimes from the front door, which has Armin turning around.

Marco calls out to him, “Hey, Armin?”

Armin’s ponytail thwacks his cheek as he whips his head around. “Yeah?”

Marco turns the metal around in his hand and stares at it before he looks up and quietly—hesitantly—says, “I’d like to take up that offer. To talk, I mean. If it’s, you know, not too much trouble.”

Armin only smiles and nods his head once before he goes to stand behind the register and greet the customer that’s walked in.

Marco goes back to cutting, and Eren emerges from the break room with his hair sticking up in numerous places. Marco barks out a laugh and Eren's confusion only makes him more amused.

 

* * *

 

"It's just so weird, you know? I don't even know this guy." 

 

Marco and Armin sit at the four-person round table in Marco’s very small kitchen with cups of tea and sugar cookies.

When he’s stressed, he bakes. Marco Bodt stress bakes. It’s not that Armin coming over to hear Marco vent his frustrations has him stressed out—it’s more of something for his hands to do and his mind to be preoccupied. When Marco’s uneasy about anything on any scale and he has access to a fully stocked kitchen, he bakes. It’s become more of a natural reaction than a habit at this point. 

It's Sunday, April 17th. The bakery is closed and Armin and told Eren he was coming in to the city for some research material. Eren had kissed him goodbye as he went to go visit his mother. Marco knew it would take Armin around thirty minutes on the train and a few minutes to walk to the bakery from the subway station, but as soon as he arrived, Armin let himself with his key. In the time that he waited for Armin’s arrival, Marco made a whole pot of tea and baked twenty-three heart shaped sugar cookies with various colored sprinkles. 

Armin breaks a cookie in half and dunks it in his tea while he waits for Marco to gather his bearings. Marco looks down at his fingers laced around the coffee mug of tea in his hands, playing with the chipped handle. He doesn't exactly know what he wants to talk about because he can't put a name to the feeling with accuracy. Words are not proving to be on his side today. It makes him feel silly; he was the one to ask Armin to borrow his time to talk about what was bothering him and now he can’t even speak.

“You can take all the time you need, Marco, it’s no problem." 

When he only answers with a deep furrow of his brow and a rare turned-down corner of his mouth, Armin starts with, “You know, you don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to. Of course, you shouldn’t bottle everything up and keep it to yourself because that’s just unhealthy. But I'm always here. Eren, too.” 

Marco picks up his spoon and idly stirs his tea, kicking up the remaining grains of sugar on the bottom of the mug that failed to dissolve in the liquid. “I know. I’m here for you guys too, all the time. No matter what.”

“We know. But this isn’t about me or Eren right now. This is about you.”

Marco goes quiet, biting his lip and scrunching up his face as he thinks again. He takes Armin’s words to heart and keeps them in a safe place, locking them away for when he knows he’s ready to talk about it, and looks back up with a smile on his face.

“You’re a really great friend, Armin. Do you, uhm, do you mind if I actually just…not talk about it for a little while? Now that I’m thinking about it, I don't really have any means of explaining whatever this is. I'd rather save your ears for a time when I know what I'm talking about."

Armin smiles and takes a sip of his tea. “Of course. Just remember not to push yourself and not to keep it locked away forever, that’s all.”

“Okay _mom."_  

“Watch it.” The two of them laugh, finishing their cups of tea, and munch on the remaining cookies in the small plate Marco put out.

When the cookies are gone and the tea is drained, Marco wipes his hands on his baking pants and stands up. “I’m really sorry for making you come all the way out here and gave you nothing.”

Armin copies the motion, choosing to wipe his hands on a napkin instead, and says around the last mouthful of cookie, “Nonsense. It’s no problem at all.”

“But hey, while you’re here,” Marco crosses the few feet to the cabinet on top of his refrigerator and stands on his tippy toes to open the door. “Wanna try out a new recipe with me?”

“A new recipe? For what?”

Marco reaches the book by the top of the spine and pulls so that it flies over his head and lands on the kitchen floor, pages splayed and spine facing the ceiling. Marco’s grinning so wide as he picks up the book and flips through a number of pages before he gets to one in the middle of a tart recipe he’d written down almost two years ago.

“That.”

Armin reads over the ingredients, the preparations, the time and the delicacy it takes to make a dark chocolate raspberry tart. “I have to say, this sounds amazing.” 

“I used to keep books when I was still a med student with recipes I always wanted to try out, and for some reason I tucked them away. The other day I was cleaning and found an unopened box in my closet, and what do you know! Found the books.” 

Shaking his head in amusement and rolling up his sleeves, Armin reads over the rest of the recipe and ties his hair back into a ponytail.

Marco grabs two aprons from a hook next to the fridge and passes one to Armin. "Pass me the flour." 


	3. Red Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is red velvet cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to [kaden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gootbuttheichou) for bein my rad af beta
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com/)

It's comfortably warm on May 13th, 2014—a heavenly and much-appreciated, break from the harsh cold of this past winter. 

May is normally the preview to summer—to a seventy-degree glimpse at the ninety-degree _hell_ that will be the streets of New York City in one month’s time. Minor waves can be seen rising off the tops of cars, the tops of buildings, everywhere. When the temperature rises and the air gets thicker, the tar of the city streets is blazing, and sometimes, if it gets hot enough, the tires on parked cars begin to melt and the insides of vehicles can reach up to one hundred degrees. It’s nothing short of brutal and it’s loved by very, very few people.

However much of a wreck the heat makes the city and its inhabitants, rain makes an utter _mess_ of Manhattan. Puddles in the middle of sidewalks soak the bottom hems of pants, and umbrellas take up walking space that makes it hard to maneuver around people. Fluorescent lighting in the windows of stores is harsh, an almost hospital-like contrast to the gloomy skies, and because of this, everyone walks with their heads down, eyes planted to phones and drenched pavements. Cars and buses that honk their horns as if their lives depend on it kick up polluted water over the curb and soak peoples' clothing.

New York's weather is infamously known for being unpredictable in the truest sense. One day it's freezing, the next day is sweltering, the day after that it's in between, and the day after _that_ is back to a degree that could easily make Manhattan resemble a tundra. Consistency is a joke in this city, and people who’ve been in it long enough know not to rely on anything the weathermen report, no matter how much they swear that it’s an honest prediction.

But when it rains, it pours, and the heavy clouds that cast over millions of people let loose cool buckets of water like a sigh of relief as they simmer down the city. 

Today, oddly enough, the downpour is welcome. Wet clothing and grumbling attitudes aside, the hope of potentially cooled down temperatures eases the tension in many, providing reassurance that the heat will soon be quelled, if only for a few days.

May 13th is a nice day—cloudy in the morning, but warm enough for light jackets and t-shirts. The promised rain that comes right before the clock strikes eight in the morning sends up wispy bouts of steam off the tarred streets and heated metal of cars. Each drop gently kisses every inch of materials exposed and causes rivulets of water to cascade off the awnings of buildings, down the windows of cars, down the exposed metal rods of umbrellas. Gushing streams of water can be heard from the sewage drains where street meets sidewalk, and pitter-patters of individual drops turned darts pang off the window glasses they hit. The rain is calming—from it's white-noise descent to the pleasant visual of a coated city— but the heat is still heavy. Its a kind of heavy that weighs you down and halts your movements. It’s almost like trying to walk in a pool of mud—the resistance against your body slows you down so considerably and the struggle brings about an ache in your calves, your thighs, your chest. You try to pick your feet up and take a step forward, but the step you take drags you down and you begin to sink. The will to move forward weakens along with your strength that’s been drained with the effort of mobility.

That’s how heavy and arduous and debilitating the heat can be in Manhattan. The rain that came a little after noon the day before caused the temperature to drop for the week, and in the city, it makes all the difference between eighty-five and seventy-three. The break in temperature causes the mud to turn to grainy dirt that dusts the soles of shoes as you walk, that clouds around each step; it’s a much better alternative to the weighted sea. 

But if New Yorkers hate anything as much as they hate heat, it’s rain, and it’s both of these factors that contribute to the explanation of why The Flour Patch is empty today.

Marco got roughly three hours and fifteen minutes of sleep last night. He woke up at an unreasonable hour this morning to do his exercises and shower before heading downstairs to open the back door for his best friends. Armin took up residence on his couch in the break room, as he does every morning, while Eren helped Marco with the heavy dough and delicate pastries that needed time to cool before opening. Everyone wound up making a little more of what was needed for the day, but that’s because they didn’t expect it to be so quiet. 

And it was quiet. What normally would’ve been around forty people by 8:30 wound up being only three, one of who was Christa. She only stayed to chat for a few minutes before heading to class, and after she said her goodbyes, the bakery was void of customers once again.

Marco loves when the bakery is bustling—he loves hearing people chatting from the kitchen, loves hearing orders being placed and compliments up at the counter on how nice the interior of the bakery turned out to be. Marco enjoys hearing Armin thank the customers and laugh with them, loves hearing Eren slip up to the front to say hello to people, even if he thinks he’s being sneaky and thinks Marco doesn’t know he’s doing it. The only noise he’d be happy to do without is the constant ringing of the bakery phone; it gives him a headache after the first few hours.

Marco is in love with his bakery and the people in it more than he ever expected to be. He adores baking and making people happy through his craft. If it means no sleep and no time for anything outside of bakery-related inquiries, it's a small compromise Marco is willing to make.

But of course, Marco is only human—a human who needs a break—and Armin knows this just as well; Marco does the most work and carries the most weight on his shoulders with running his bakery. He gets the least amount of sleep out of the three of them each night and he still manages to put a smile on his face so bright that it rivals the sun. He opened the bakery with eyes wide open to everything, of course, but it doesn’t make it any easier, and Marco needs a break. 

Well, today is as good of an opportunity to take a break as any.

Eren, Armin, and Marco are at the counter up front, idly changing the radio station throughout the bakery to something “not-so-poppy” as Marco had requested. Marco winds up laughing so loud—“overtired” an improper word to describe him as at this point—because “poppy” reminds him of the poppy-seed bagels they made an hour before, and then he imagines Taylor Swift singing about a poppy-seed bagel. 

“Eren! Eren th-think about it,” Marco stutters through barks of laughter much too loud for the still-early hour of 8:45 AM. “He’s the reason for the seeds all on my guitar, the only thing that keeps me eating on a wishing star!”

Eren stares wide-eyed at Marco, looking the exact definition of horrified. “Marco. Marco, stop.”

Marco holds his arms out and turns his face towards the ceiling, eyes closed as he serenades the two of them with, “He’s the one—that I eat—in the car—don’t know why I do.” 

“Armin, he’s singing. He’s singing about Taylor Swift singing about a _poppy-seed bagel_.”

Armin grabs onto Eren’s wrist, squeezing to help reassure him that the torture of Marco’s grainy, over-tired singing is nearing its end. “Let it go, Eren.” 

“ _Let it go! Let it go! Can’t stand to bake anymore!_ ” Marco yells to the high heavens, but he stops as soon as he bellows the last syllable, horror settling in as he realizes what he said, and turns back to look at Eren and Armin with disbelieving eyes and an open mouth. “That’s such a lie, I would _never_. If I ever say that again, make sure to whack me in the head with the rolling pin. The big one.”

After Armin puts his heart at ease with promises of rolling-pin punishments, Marco remembers his poppy-seed pop star and is in stitches over his own imagination once again. His two best friends are left shaking their heads in mock disappointment.

The radio can only be listened to for so long before a headaches begin to form. Marco’s laughter finally dies down and Eren fiddles with the radio until it lands on a smooth jazz channel. After looking around beyond the counter to check for customers he knows full well aren’t there, he catches Armin off guard, grabs his hands, and yanks him forward. 

“Wha—Eren!”

Eren pulls Armin up against him, placing his free hand on Armin’s waist and squeezing Armin’s hand with his other. Behind the counter, he leads Armin in a loose dance, doing his best not to bump into wire baskets of bread on the walls or the display cases of cakes and small pastries. Armin’s _really_ trying to suppress his giggles, truly. He’s giggling and muttering things like, “Eren, stop it! What if someone were to walk in here? This is unprofessional.” 

Marco closes his eyes, cheek resting in his palm on the counter as he leans next to the register. He hears Eren try to quell Armin's worries, saying something about how it's almost been two hours and five people haven't show up, and Armin’s laughter increases and bounces off the bookshelves, off the walls and the glass cases behind them. Marco smiles as he listens to them; he listens to Eren trying so hard not to laugh and sputtering as he tries to suppress his bubbling hilarity and Armin’s hesitant footsteps as Eren sweeps him around. Marco enjoys this, too. Hearing his employees, his best friends, so happy and so stupidly in love with each other makes Marco’s heart swell like bread rising in an oven. But if he really thinks about it, Armin and Eren are the dough, their affections for each other growing and rising over the rim of a metal tin and spilling over the edges. Marco isn’t the dough in this; he’s just the baker watching through the oven window, watching as the ingredients bind together, as the loaf rises and rises and curls over the brim until it’s overflowing. Marco knows moments like these, moments where they bask in each other’s company like one would apricate on a beach, are what mean the most to them. They’re so carefree, so full of life and of _each other_ , that a few fleeting moments to dance to jazz music at work are the few fleeting moments that matter most, that tell them what they have together is real and alive. Moments like these are moments where they fall in love with each other all over again, and he wouldn't interrupt that for the world. 

Marco’s cheeks begin to ache from smiling so much, and, deciding to give the two what privacy he can in a public bakery, he stands up and quietly makes his way back to the kitchen. An abandoned bowl of cannoli cream that has yet to meet the bowl of chocolate chips sits in wait until Marco returns, and since he has, he figures he better get to it. 

The trick is to not pour in the chocolate chips all at one time. In order to keep the cream airy, handfuls of chocolate chips are to be added at a time. If you pour in the entire bowl, nothing will mix evenly and the cream becomes much denser. Marco knows this so well, and yet he almost _does_ dump the entire thing in, too tired to even think about technique, but catches himself just as a third of the chips are sitting on top of the cream. He sets the bowl back down and begins to stir. He watches the chocolate chips drown and reappear in the cream, feels the weight of the smooth and slightly splintering wooden spoon in his grip as he stirs to even out the chips. The hiss of the ovens behind him protest at a lack of pastries to heat. The mixers squeak from an absence of dough and batter and anything they can keep themselves occupied with, can contribute to the creation of. Aside from the music and the occasional bout of laughter coming from the lovebirds up front, the bakery is the quietest it’s been since before they even opened, and Marco is enjoying the time to relax—if stirring cannoli cream can be considered relaxing. To anyone else it wouldn’t be, but this is Marco, and anything that’s even remotely relative to his kitchen and baked goods is Marco’s ideal happy place. So, yeah, stirring cannoli cream at his own pace is the most "relaxing" thing Marco’s done in months.

As his arm grows tired of stirring the cream to fill the cannolis, Marco smiles and hums to what he hears is Fly Me To the Moon on the radio station. He takes his time for once, not needing to rush since the last person that walked through the front doors that they served was so long ago already. While slow-paced baking is, of course, a rare and very much-appreciated occurrence, Marco begins to feel the weight of overexertion set in his muscles. He’s normally so active and so in his zone during the day that he doesn’t have time to pay attention to his body’s complaints if he wanted to. The grooves between his shoulder blades pinch and ache with use and his lower back argues against lifting anything over forty pounds. He’s now prone to headaches when he’s exhausted, something that’s never happened before and that now happen quite frequently. His body is in need of serious rest, even if only for an extra hour or two, and when he begins to sway in front of the bowl of cannoli cream, Eren is the one to reach him first. 

“Woah woah, easy there,” Eren murmurs as he catches Marco from behind. “You okay, Muffin Man?”

“Yeah, I’m uh,” Marco rubs his forehead, feeling the headache he knew was coming reach its peak. “I’m alright.”

“Do not fall for such tricks, he’s lying.” Marco turns his head to see Armin leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and looking concerned, yet fully aware of Marco’s fatigue and the toll it takes on him. Marco turns his head too fast and he gets dizzy, stepping one foot behind him to try and brace a fall his body thinks is coming, but Eren’s quick to keep him upright. “Told you.” 

“Now,” Armin continues, bracing himself against the dispute he knows Marco will supply, stubborn as always, “you either go take a nap on my couch, using your own two feet, for a minimum of two hours, or Eren will pick you up and carry you there. Choose.” 

Groaning, Marco closes his eyes, hoping the dizzy spells will dissipate, and rubs the heel of his palm roughly against his forehead, as if angrily rubbing the skin there will bid farewell to the persistent throbbing. Armin thinks the groaning is a sign of reluctance and sighs, looking to Eren with a pleading expression and a small smile. Eren only rolls his eyes and nods before crouching in front of Marco and hauling him onto his back. Normally, Marco would be flailing and using wild gestures and kicks of his legs to get himself down, but he’s too exhausted and too worn out to care. Instead of resisting, Marco just hangs his arms and leans his cheek against the top of Eren’s spine. ‘My’ _couch, he said. Who does he think_ paid _for that couch_ , Marco thinks to himself as he yawns.

“That was easier than I thought it would be.” Eren hops once in place, shifting Marco on his back to secure his hold on his boss, and holds onto the backs of Marco’s thighs for added support. 

Armin walks over to the koala and the bread boy, patting Marco’s head. Armin is expecting some sort of nuzzle, like Marco usually gives when someone shows him physical affection, but he’s already fast asleep. Armin smiles and Eren hums softly, walking from the kitchen through the small hallway between rooms and then to the staff room. He sets Marco down gently on Armin’s couch, drapes one of the throw blankets over him, and props a pillow beneath Marco's head. 

“Wow. He really fell asleep on me,” Eren quietly remarks as Armin grabs his hand and twines their fingers together.

“Good, let him sleep for a little while. We can always wake him up if we need him. Although,” Armin mutters as he tugs Eren’s hand, “the bakery isn’t particularly full today, so I think we should be fine.” 

Armin leads Eren back through the small hallway, through the kitchen, and back to the front of the bakery where there is still a lack of customers. Their hands leave each other briefly while Eren turns down the volume of the music overhead in case it disturbs Marco and changes it to a station that just piano instrumentals. As soon as the riffs are at a quiet-enough sound level, Eren immediately goes back to holding onto Armin. 

There’s not much to do when the bakery is empty and all that was to be baked has been baked. The books in the bookcases were mostly Eren’s that he donated to Marco when the bakery opened, so he’s read them all. Armin sometimes does some research for his own personal amusement and to keep up with recent news and psychology studies. Work being busy is a good thing though, and they’re constantly on their feet and moving around; between baking and serving customers, answering phones and taking orders, there’s really no room for a moment to sit down outside of their one-hour lunch break. The option for a break at any point in the day is always on the table for each of them, but sometimes it’s better to keep moving than sitting, so it’s rare the breaks in between are taken in full. Eren and Armin don’t mind, though—they think it’s nice to be so interactive with customers and in the kitchen, so movement is hardly an issue. On the plus side, it helps them sleep much better at night, even if Eren still gets his nightmares every now and then and Armin wakes him up to calm him down enough for them to fall back asleep.

For now, Eren and Armin find comfort in sitting together at the front of the bakery. They’re not talking, they’re not giggling; they’re not doing anything, really. They’ve dragged two rickety wooden stools from the staff room table and brought them behind the counter up front, sitting next to each other and waiting for someone to come in. Armin’s thumb is massaging Eren’s palm, over the long diagonal scar that’s still a little raised and shiny pink, even though it’s been six years since it became a permanent fixture. The crystallized gash across his palm is more sensitive than the near identical one on the back of his hand, and Armin only traces it when Eren’s anxious or when they just have a moment alone. It’s something of a soothing gesture and a vivid reminder, a piece of history that will never, and should never, be forgotten. It grounds them and it reaffirms everything they have together. Eren leans his head on Armin’s shoulder as Armin continues to trace the scar, back and forth, back and forth with his thumb. 

Their bubble of solitude that’s formed in the almost two and a half hours of silence in the bakery is popped when the small jingle of the front door bell signals a customer at ten on the dot. 

Armin reluctantly retracts his hand from Eren’s palm and gets off his stool to stand at the counter, smoothing the white apron of any wrinkles with the intention of looking more put-together. Of course, he greets this customer like he greets any other customer, and begins to rattle off his script.

“Good morning sir, welcome to The Flour Patch. What can I get for you today?” He makes sure to sound welcoming and friendly, to smile and be helpful. He looks at this man in anticipation for his order and he waits.

Normally, Armin’s cheery personality works like a charm on just about everyone who walks through those two front doors. He greets everyone with genuine warmth and is always eager to please and make sure the experience at the bakery is a good one. People usually respond with smiles of their own; it’s extremely rare that they get a customer who walks out of here grumpy. 

But this guy—this guy looks distant and has this weird expression on his face, something along the lines of discomfort, like standing at the counter is a task larger than he wants to tackle. Armin doesn't like to make assumptions: he might’ve had a bad day, and the least Armin can do is try to make it a little better. 

The man steps up to the counter and gently drums his fingers on the countertop, taking his time looking over everything on the back wall behind the register and on the chalkboard on the wall. There’s several beats of silence between them, and Armin practically feels Eren’s hair on the back of his neck begin to stand up. Out of the corner of his eye, Armin sees Eren reflexively clench his good hand and plant his feet on the ground, poised to pounce. Armin’s used to this, to Eren’s protectiveness; growing up together didn’t just give them physical scars.

Still, he waits patiently. 

The man clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, a grin on his face that seems strained, but eyes that shine with terribly concealed anticipation. “Is there a Marco Bodt around here?” 

If this stranger didn’t have Armin’s interest before, he sure does now. Armin knows Marco, and pretty well, if he wants to give himself some credit. He also knows that Marco doesn’t have many friends in Manhattan outside of himself and Eren, and it’s not like he works in another job where he’d have coworkers looking for him. Armin and Eren are his coworkers, so there is no logical explanation Armin can think of pertaining to how this guy knows Marco, knows he works here, and knows him by name. 

“Actually,” Armin begins, already forming an excuse as he goes, “Marco isn’t here today. What is this in regards to, exactly?” 

“Nothing important, I guess.” Jean retracts one hand from his pocket to push up his glasses on his nose, looking around the back counter and landing on a seemingly irritated Eren. Gesturing to Eren, Jean asks with a point of his finger, “He okay?” 

“Oh, uhm,” Armin looks back to see Eren, whose butt is nearly off the stool, one hand clenched and the other forming as much of a fist as it can. He clearly looks a little defensive, and Armin realizes it’s his job now to set both their minds at ease. “He’s our guard dog. Shaggy little thing, don’t mind him.” Eren turns his head to Armin, an eyebrow raised but his shoulders marginally relaxed. Jean snorts.

Armin shrugs at Eren and turns back to Jean. "I can have him call you at your convenience, if you'd like?" 

Jean mumbles "I'm never convenient and takes one hand out of his pocket to drum his finger against the side of his thigh. “Can I leave a message for him? Is that okay?” 

Armin slides his hand down Eren’s arm and Eren relaxes at the touch. Armin nods and smiles wider. "Sure. What would you like me to tell him?"

Jean stops and considers for a moment. He burns a hole in the countertop with the weight of his stare and bites his lip as his mind races. "Uh. Just tell him I said thanks. And that I'll be in later."

Armin nods and jots it down on a notepad next to the register with his free hand. When he's done he looks up and sees Jean already looking at him, half expectedly and half like he wants to turn and leave. "That all?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"No problem. Do you want to order anything while you're here?"

Jean stuffs his hands back into his pants pockets and shakes his head. "I'm good. Maybe later." Without another word, Jean turns on his heel and walks towards the front doors, stopping for a moment to mutter a quick “thank you" before hastily leaving the bakery. He’s out of view from the front shop windows before Armin realizes he didn’t even get his name. 

Eren huffs, dropping onto the stool that rattles beneath him and tugging Armin with him. Armin is actually kind of interested; a little miffed at Jean's off behavior, but interested nonetheless. He thinks about Jean and Marco and realizes they seem like such polar opposites—where Marco is sweet, open, and bubbly, Jean is seemingly reserved and a bit awkward. Armin’s interest is most definitely piqued, but with interest comes curiosity, and with curiosity comes questions. And he always has a handful at the ready.

How do they know each other? What was he saying thank you for, and if that was all he wanted, why didn't he just call? 

The questions circle Armin’s brain, trying to find answers to questions that just lead to more questions. He supposes he'll just wait for Marco to rise from his nap and ask him directly. 

Armin's been staring out the front shop windows for so long that it takes Eren rapidly tugging on the bottom of his apron to snap out of it. 

“Hellooooo, Armin. You there, space cadet?” 

“Hmm?” Armin turns his head, blonde ponytail whipping against his cheek as he looks behind him and down at Eren. He’s got the puppy look on his face again and Armin swears his head is tilted like dogs are prone to do when they’re curious or confused.

“You alright?” Armin hears the little worry in his voice, but he knows that Eren is well aware of his tendencies to get so lost in thought that it takes a while for things to start calming down in his head for him to be cognizant again.

Armin steps backward so Eren’s knees bump against the back of his. Eren’s arms wrap around his waist, and Eren would laugh about the fact that his face is practically in Armin’s ass, but he refrains when he sees Armin still has that vaguely distant look on his face. 

With Eren’s arms around his middle, Armin slides his hand from Eren’s wrist and back to his palm to continue running his thumb over the raised piece of their past that marks Eren’s skin.

 

* * *

 

Jean likes when it rains. He likes the sound it makes on windows and how grey and bright it makes the sky. He likes when he’s at home and the room turns into a comfortable kind of monochrome atmosphere that requires heaps of hot tea, blankets, and a good book—or in most cases, the manuscripts he works on. 

Unfortunately, Jean is not home with tea and reading or editing material. Jean is on 23rd and 7th, wondering why, oh why, he has to come in to the office today. He’s also wondering why, oh why, that Marco guy couldn’t just be at the bakery so he can get his coffee—he made it pretty good last time. He knows he could’ve just asked one of the other two to make it, but for some odd reason, Jean doesn’t think it’d be the same. So he'd left with a message he didn't intend on leaving behind and no coffee.

Instead of turning around and going back to the bakery to leave his number, which he regretfully forgot to do in his haste, Jean just fiddles with the pen cap from the pen in his pocket and drudges forward. 

Jean feels the palm of his hand graze against the tip of the pen in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see a giant streak of black across his skin. He smudges his thumb against the edge of it, watching it fade and smear across his palm. Sometimes, he wishes his hands were made of paper so they could absorb the ink and the words the pens write into his body. A kind of permanence he only dreams about.

Because that's what writing is: a permanent fixture. The words, the symbols, the sketches—they all stay. From Post-It note reminders and 4 AM thoughts on what it means to heal, to grocery shopping lists and editorial remarks on the manuscripts he goes through for work. Once something is written, it cannot be erased. You can crumple the pages and tear the paper to bits and tiny pieces, but the writing remains. White-outs only cover up the scripture and erasable pens never fully take away the markings. Old headstones in cemeteries have inscriptions that have been eroded away, time and rain and weather cruel to the memory of the lost. But on paper the inked words bleed into the fibers and they blend together. They stay. It goes unlooked by most people: the hastily-written reminders on stray napkins or the elegance of hand-written letters are remembered for a moment.

But it’s fascinating. Those words can be meaningless—a note passed in class with crude jokes, to-do lists, half of a phone number. They could be scraps of time during the day or they could be of vital importance. With just these two things, you can create stories and poetry and something so much more than just symbols that flow from pen tips and finger tips. 

As Jean leaves The Flour Patch at 10:05 AM without so much as a glance at the baker he’d hope to see again, Jean has the urge to write, and if he stops to consider it, leaving the bakery brings a swell of disappointment he can only channel through a pen. 

The entire ride back to his office on the 1 subway line has Jean thinking. He’s thinking about ideas for poems, what to get for dinner, the woman who won’t stop clacking her goddamn heels against the tiled subway car floor. The conductor announces over the loudspeaker in the train car that the next stop is Houston Street, and Jean goes to grab the metal pole to help him stand up when he smells coffee. The collar of his pea cot smells like coffee, still lingering from the bakery. He doesn’t mind it so much.

Jean walks out of the subway when it arrives at his stop, thankful that he doesn’t have to bear the sound of that woman's heels any longer. He’s greeted with a swarm of people trying to make it onto the car before the doors close and leave them behind, but he’s done this so many times already that Jean’s got shoving his way through the mass of selfishness and to the stairs down to a science. Once he’s emerged on the other side unscathed, he climbs the stairs that lead him to Houston Street, and it’s from here that his office is, thankfully, only a few minutes away on foot.

As his own work shoes click against the sidewalk, Jean digs his hands further into his pockets. His walk to the office has become mechanical, instinctual—he knows all the shops that line the streets as he passes them, knows some of the people who work there and some that he doesn’t. He knows the faces of people that frequent the same street he does on the same days and times. It’s become a mechanical pace and a mechanical way of thinking, his own type of autopilot. The familiarity and the motions are so ingrained in his body that Jean doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. He just goes. 

Which is good, because while he doesn’t have to think about walking to work and which turns to make down which streets, he can contemplate other things, like the meaning of life and if Bigfoot really does exist. 

He doesn’t, but it’s always an option. 

Sometimes Jean stops and wonders about things like if what he was doing were written down in a novel what it would sound like. If whatever he’s doing and feeling and the places and people he’s surrounded by were found in metaphors and similes and explained from a writer’s perspective—what would it sound like? What phrasing could be used to sound poetic enough to describe what he's doing without making it sound as mundane as real life makes it out to be? He often thinks of what metaphors would be used for the way the cold air burns the inside of his lungs like fire in a bottle. Or how someone would describe the blare of car and truck horns going down the street that ring inside his head like the echoes of clocks ringing in a church with high ceilings.

These thoughts are fleeting, but they happen quite frequently, and it causes Jean to write them down. Because writing is, after all, the permanence with which to capture the immediate moment.

If he writes them down, they'll stay.

Jean flashes his badge to the front desk when he enters the lobby of his building. He rounds the corner and reaches the elevator, saying hello to the familiar faces on their way out. On the editorial floor, he greets his coworkers, he makes the world’s worst cup of coffee from the Keurig in the break room, he drops his suitcase on his desk, and falls into his swivel chair. 

The coffee is nowhere near as good as the bakery’s. He tries not to think about it as he downs half the cup in two gulps.

Before he does anything else and before he forgets, he digs through the recesses of his messenger bag for his black book and the pen he uses to write in it.

 _5/13/14_

_There is something to be said of_

_thoughts impermanent—_

_the option for ink_

_is a wise medium for_

_a persistent past,_

_a mundane present,_

_and an insecure future._

Jean stares at the words that are scrawled on the small page, hands gingerly holding the sides of the small book, and he feels something being sucked out of him. Not in the negative sense, but in the fluid sense. It’s four lines of words in hasty handwriting that he wrote about before really thinking them over, but they’ve been drawn from his brain, through his pen, and onto the page. 

Those seven lines are fixated. He could rip out this page right now and crumble it and shred it if he wanted to, toss the pieces to the wind of the fourteenth floor, but the ink will still remain and whatever thought he had, whatever brief moment that caused him to write won't leave. Words he might never return to or words he might think about often. No matter what he chooses to do with them—or not do with them—they’ll be there.

Jean never knows with words. Jean never knows if some words will stick with him for years or just the afternoon. He doesn’t know if he’ll frequently revisit this date in his black book or if he’ll never see it or flip back to it again. It’s an urgency that always requires immediate acknowledgement. Mellifluous words that catch his ear, phrases he picks up from conversations that are so ordinary but so appealing; seven lines of what’s he believes to be poetry that practically wrote themselves.

It’s brief, but no matter how brief the need is to write it down before he forgets, it is a need that’s never satiated. Everyday is something new and with each new something comes the indescribable duty and automatic demand to record it. It’s a demand his mind devised in college, and since it began, it hasn’t stopped. He tucks the black book and his pen into a corner of his desk and fishes out his laptop and manuscripts.

_(Scripturient: possessing a violent desire to write)._

After an hour going through the manuscript that needed the most work out of the three he had in his possession, Jean realizes that concentration is just _not_ working for him today. Every few sentences of corrections and suggestions in margins, he stops to think of lunch or what Connie and Sasha are up to. He almost goes to bother them to see what covers Connie is working on or what new author events Sasha has to organize, but decides against it. They’re a whole floor above him and that’s too much work for an exhausted Jean Kirschtein. 

Jean slips his frames from his face and places them on the wood of his desk in favor of rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees white spots. He groans and folds his arms on the table to rest his head. It’s not the most comfortable position, but his head is turned and he can see out the window.

It’s not the best view of the skyline, but the scenery Jean’s little office window provides him with is still breathtaking. He can see the Hudson River clear as day. He can see a glimpse of the traffic down below him and the expanse of white sky the clouds conquer. He can see small, very faint patches of blue that try so hard to peek through, only to disappear again. If the buzzing of his phone would stop, he could hear the car horns blaring and people yelling—

Jean picks his head off his forearms to scramble for the violently thrashing phone he left in his coat pocket. A picture of Connie with his finger holding up his nose that makes him look like he’s from Whoville flashes on Jean’s phone screen.

He answers the call before the vibrating ends. Jean finds himself smirking, clearing his throat as he says into the receiver, “Thank you for calling Joe’s Pizza, how can I help you?”

“Yeah hi, I’ll have a large pepperoni fuck you with a side of get your ass up here. Oh and can you throw in one Mr. Jean P. Kirschtein? I heard he’s at work but we all know he’s doing fuck-all anyway. Might as well save him from his misery, the poor bastard.” That’s all Connie has to say for Jean to find the motivation to travel up one flight to the graphic design and marketing department. 

“That’ll be extra, sir.” It’s hard to mask the grin on his face, and if Connie’s laughter is anything to go by, he doesn’t do a very good job of it. 

“Just shut up and take my money, _sir_.” Jean can hear papers rustling in the background, can hear Sasha trying to yell into the receiver from her cubicle a couple of feet away from Connie. He must've shoved his hand in her face because there's some incoherent garbling and he's telling her to quiet down or else he'll shove his tablet pen down her throat. Jean just rolls his eyes and hangs up the phone, manuscripts, laptop, and black book shoved back into his messenger bag as he heads out of his office and towards the elevators. 

The ride up only takes a few minutes, but after years of being best friends with New York's biggest loons, Jean really should've expected some sort of grand greeting at the elevator doors. Because nothing with them is ever, ever normal.

He doesn't though, because he's a certified idiot who forgets his friends are lunatics.

As soon as the elevator signals his arrival at the fifteenth floor, the doors open and the two buffoons throw themselves at Jean so hard he falls on his ass inside the elevator and takes them with him, all three of them splayed on the floor.

Jean's hands are pinned down, one beneath Connie's ass and the other under Sasha's heel, which is digging into the back of his hand. Jean groans and glares at the first pair of eyes he sees, which are, coincidentally, Connie’s. “Are you fucking stupid? We're in an elevator, for chrissakes." 

"But we missed you!" It hasn't even been 24 hours since Jean saw them last and Sasha's whines are still as piercing and high pitched as ever. She goes to stand up, not realizing she’s stepping on Jean’s hand, and he yelps as the heel further digs into his skin.

“Sasha my hand, my _hand!"_  

“Oh!” Sasha picks her foot up and gives Jean a very apologetic shrug that turns into a smile so bright you’d think she found the world’s biggest diamond and _not_ just crushed the hand of her best friend. Sasha holds out her hand, auburn ponytail spilling over her shoulder as she leans over Jean’s fallen form. “Come on come on, we have to show you the new stuff from yesterday. Get up.” 

Connie moves to stand, freeing Jean’s other hand and Jean latches onto Sasha, who yanks him up so hard onto his feet he feels like he’s going to fall over again. He feels ashamed for forgetting just how strong she is. 

Jean straightens his blazer, fixes his glasses on his face and holds out an arm to keep the elevator doors from closing before they can get out. Thing One and Thing Two are too busy brushing themselves off and fixing their outfits to realize that they should leave the elevator before people on other floors start to get angry. 

When everyone is situated and looking presentable again—or as presentable as Connie Springer can be with his pressed suit and tennis sneakers—Jean follows them to where their neighboring cubicles are next to the corner window on the floor. 

Jean huffs as he all but throws his jacket and messenger bag onto Connie’s desk. “What do you guys have?”

“Well if you’d remove your _shit_ from my _desk_ , I could get on my computer and _show you_ , asshole.” Connie settles into his chair, shoving Jean’s things right onto the floor so he can wake up his desktop. Jean's always been a bit envious of Connie's 21.5 inch MacBook desktop, but it wouldn't be a very productive tool to aid in Jean's literary process, and so he has an iPad, his own laptop, and more fancy pens then he cares to admit. He can't really complain because he _loves_ a good writing pen, but an Apple desktop would be nice, too. 

“Alrighty, let me pull up the most beautiful cover you will ever feast your eyes upon. It’s a beauty, this one. My pride and joy. My sweet—” 

"We get it."

Connie pouts and Jean's remark hangs in the air while Connie scrolls through his documents and folders for the right file.

Aside from being Jean’s best friend since freshman year of college and working at the same publishing house, Connie Springer designs book covers. Their arrangement works remarkably well, because knowing each other on such a personal level allows them to be in the same workplace with wonderful communication. Their system is simple—Jean edits the manuscripts of novels he receives from literary agents: he goes through them for grammar mistakes, plot holes, character development, overall story-telling ability and writing style etc., and then Connie designs the cover for it. He never did love to read as much as Jean did when they were younger, but Connie’s love of graphic design allowed him the gateway into the world of literature, just by means of Photoshop and not the actual text. He does read the manuscripts to get a better sense of what the cover should look like, what font to use, and what selling points to exploit, but he doesn’t go as in-depth as Jean and mostly reads for plot. 

Connie had applied to work at the publishing house the same time Jean did in the middle of their sophomore years in college with the hope that they’d work together, and with some stroke of ridiculous luck that only Connie Springer could have, they were both accepted. They spent three years during their college years interning—the standard coffee runs and minor responsibilities—and when they graduated, they were offered full time positions. Now, both at twenty-five nearing twenty-six and six years with the company, the two are finally in the positions they worked so hard for, and the best part, they think, is that they work together.

Jean can insult Connie without actually hurting his feelings and giving him an honest opinion, and Connie can push Jean’s buttons for deadlines and hearing criticism of his finished products without Jean sugar coating anything. It’s the best setup two mid-twenty-something-year-olds can hope to have with their best friend. 

“Check it out.” Connie pulls up Photoshop and opens a file labeled “supernatural manuscript #3 for Jeany boy." The first thing Jean notices are the glowing eyes of a boy with shaggy hair and antlers, only half his face taking up the cover, but the twisted grin is exceedingly and extraordinarily prominent. Teeth so sharp you could practically feel the point on your fingertips and eyes that look absolutely murderous that glow green are exactly why Connie is the best at what he does. For the appropriately named "Here There Be Monsters," Connie's interpretation of one of the most interesting characters is remarkably spot on. Connie is the only person Jean has met that has the rare ability of physically creating a thought; how Jean sees images and characters and concepts in his head, Connie can create. It's fascinating, especially when Jean watches as he reads Connie part of the text and describes a scene in vivid detail. Connie sketches as Jean reads and describes, writes down key terms that are important to highlight on the cover and the perfect angles to capture the essence of the story he’s working with. Even when Jean has difficulty finding the right words—too afraid of inaccuracy—Connie never fails to be accurate in his ideas and outlines of what Jean tries so desperately to tell him.

It doesn’t surprise him that Connie’s paranormal concoction exceeds his expectations, but Jean is stupefied nonetheless. And by the sound of barely-concealed squealing from Sasha, Jean is sure she’s just as proud of him.

Jean averts his attention from the computer screen to Sasha’s hands fiercely grabbing onto Connie’s shoulders that she's using as leverage to jump up and down, despite the fact that she is wearing very high heels. Although Jean is no medical expert, he’s very concerned about the state of her ankles. “Look at this! Look at this ugly, twisted, downright fucking nasty creature who is also kinda hot! Congratulations sugar cube, you’ve managed to make a hideous god-beast... _thing_ attractive looking.” She leans over Connie’s shoulder and plants a very loud kiss to his cheek.  “How _do_ you do it?”

Connie brushes off imaginary dust from his shoulders. “We just don’t know.” He’s pretending to be all high-and-mighty, but they’ve been together for four years already, and Connie _still_ blushes as if they were still in the first few weeks of getting to know each other. 

After interning came to a close and the start of their full-time jobs came upon them, Jean and Connie saw each other less than they were used to. They'd meet in the lobby of the building, ride in the elevator together, and when it came time for Jean to get off at the fourteenth floor, Connie would bid him farewell and ride up one more. They wouldn't see much of each other until it was time to go home—Connie would be in the elevator waiting for Jean to go down with him. Once they got settled and learned the motions of the workplace, Connie and Jean spent lunch breaks together in between spontaneous visits to each others' floor. 

Meeting Sasha Braus was not planned, and it remains one of the best and worst incidents to have happened.

Connie met her first. Since the graphic design and marketing departments were a few of the smaller branches in headquarters, their departments were on the same floor, the fifteenth. Connie's desk serves as the end of the graphic design half of the floor and Sasha's serves to be where marketing begins. The only divider between them is a strip of floor leading to the doors that go to the elevators.

From what Jean remembers, Connie went through varying stages of embarrassment, stuttering, some bouts of rivalry, and excitable gestures that might’ve broken a lamp or two.

The first time Jean remembers Connie ever being flustered, Connie had told him that he likes ponytails. There was no follow-up remark, no previous discussion of any kind—he just blurted out that he really digs ponytails. Jean’s known since day one of college with Connie that he was an oddball, so he didn’t think too much of it at the time.

The second time Jean remembers Connie acting strange (which was saying something; this is Connie Springer, after all), Connie was forehead-first on his desk, muttering “I’m so fucked” repeatedly. Again, he thought nothing of it and let his companion suffer in silence.

The most prominent instance where Connie realized he was in love with the girl in marketing who had serious talent with a tablet and a bottomless pit for a stomach, Sasha ate his lunch by accident (or he _thought_ it was on accident) and then proceeded to make him look like the laziest, unmotivated recent hire out of the sixteen new recruits. 

“She fucking—!” Connie had started, hands flying in unpredictable directions and eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “She ate my lunch and left bite marks on what was left of my beautiful chicken caesar wrap! But oh no, she didn’t stop there. Because she’s the floor’s _goody goody_ , and _her work was done_ and _she had nothing else to do._ Ask me what she did. Go on Jean, ask me what she did.” 

Jean rolled his eyes, palm in his hand and eyes drooping after a long day of work. “What did she do, Con.” 

“She did _all_ of my copies for me, got coffee for Mr. Smith exactly how he liked it so I wouldn’t have to, _and_ organized his filing cabinet! His _filing cabinet!"_

“I’m so, so sorry you didn’t have any work to do, Connie. It’s truly devastating.”

“Don’t you realize she made me look like an idiot? She made me look lazy and unmotivated and unproductive and—” Connie stopped, falling back into his office chair with a look Jean, strangely enough, thought of as the most sincere and honest and _open_ Jean’s ever seen him be. “I love her.”

Jean was fully awake after a remark like _that_ and more alert than any cup of coffee could’ve made him. If he _had_ said coffee, he was pretty sure it would’ve gone from his mouth to all over Connie’s shirt in a matter of seconds anyway. Thankfully, he was coffee-less and was merely left gaping like a fish at his best friend. “You _what_.” 

“I love her. I am in love with Sasha goddamn Braus.”

“Connie,” Jean began, slow and cautious, “she showed you up and made you look like a complete idiot in front of Mr. Smith. And she ate your wrap from Boswell’s. You know how good those wraps are and she ate it and you _love_ her?” 

“No one’s ever made me look so ridiculous—” 

“Pretty sure you do that yourself.”

“—and caught me so off guard like this. I love that. She has the ability to challenge me. No one’s ever challenged me.” Connie paused, holding his chin in his hands and looking out the window with the most uncharacteristic furrow in his brow and set to his jaw. “I’m gonna do it.” 

Jean groaned and leaned his head back on his chair, eyes closed and headache beginning to fester. “Gonna do what. What could you possibly do right now.”

“I’m gonna challenge her.”

Jean had thought that after that conversation, getting up and walking away without giving Connie a response would resolve whatever love rivalry he had going on with his floormate. 

Well, he was wrong. 

So, so wrong. 

Three months. Three solid months consisting of consecutive days where Sasha and Connie tried to outshine the other. Three solid months of coming to work early to get ahead in their work, of cleaning their desks and preparing everything for their bosses ahead of time; any method they found to kiss ass and be better than the other, they used. 

Towards the end of the third month, Sasha grew tired of their shenanigans after Connie had cleaned the staff room, done the recycling for the whole floor, vacuumed Mr. Smith’s office, and filled the paper tray in Sasha’s printer on her desk. 

Instead of trying to show him up that day, she just kissed him instead. 

Needless to say that was the day she won. 

Four years later, she _still_ wins. Connie doesn’t like to talk about his defeat, probably because he doesn’t want to admit it was a happy one so easily. 

Jean met Sasha after that third month, when Con and Sash realized that their rivalry was only because they liked each other. Connie brought her around the editing floor and Jean will never forget that the first thing she said to him was, “What the _hell_ is up with your tie?” because he grabbed the wrong one that morning and didn’t realize until he was at work. It took him a while to not take anything she commented on too personally, and soon saw that she was actually extremely considerate, perceptive, and knew how to deal with people and aimed to please, which was what made her so good at her job in marketing. 

Since their relationship took off, Penguin Publishing House has seen some very interesting situations, and for all the “interesting” situations that’ve gone on throughout the building, Connie and Sasha are at the center of about 90% of them. From swivel chair races down hallways, to seeing who can blow up the staff room microwave first, to what they deemed as “harmless pranks”—Sasha and Connie have done it all. Jean remembers the morning he came to work and heard the entire office in hysterics as they started up their computers. He’d rather not relive the nightmare that was Connie and Sasha deciding to program everyone’s computer start-up screens so that a screamer would come on at full volume before the log-in windows had time to boot up. What he  _does_  like to remember is the two-week punishment they had of cleaning toilets for the entire editing and graphic design department floors; never had he seen them cry at the same time quite like they did each night after toilet scrubbing.

But watching them—Sasha excitedly pointing out the details of Connie’s illustrations and Connie turning red at the tips of his ears over her praise—Jean knows that they’re the perfect match for each other and the best friends he could’ve asked for, even if they’re overgrown children that need near-constant supervision.  

It wound up like this: Jean handles the manuscripts, Connie handles the book covers, and Sasha handles the marketing aspects; she designs the brochures, the meet-and-greets, the billboard advertisements, you name it. Their jobs go hand in hand in hand. It can’t get much better than what the three of them have, and none of them would change it for anything.

“Jean! _Jeeaaannnnn!"_

Jean blinks and shakes his head, looking from Connie’s computer screen to a confused couple. “Yeah?”

“You alright man?” Connie twirls his tablet pen and Sasha tilts her head to the side just barely, and if Jean weren’t as out of it as he feels, he’d probably laugh.

Jean groans and rubs his eyes. “I’m fine, just tired I guess.” 

“Hmmm,” Connie hums, but something crosses his mind because he drops his tablet pen and puts on a smirk almost as devilish as his illustration. “Soooooo, Jeany boy.”

Lifting his head from his hands, Jean looks up to his best friend, a “What?” on his lips, but it dies and Jean pales.

That look is a Connie Springer Classic. Jean knows, he _knows_ that when that look, when his eyebrows quirk up and his grin becomes downright _maniacal_ that he’s about to bring up a topic the person in question doesn’t want to talk about. 

“Have you dropped by that bakery I told you to go to yet?” 

And there it is. There it fucking is. 

Jean can feel his heart hammering, can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and a warmth in his nose and he isn’t aware of it but his toes curl in his shoes. “No, what are you talking about? What bakery?” 

“You went!” Sasha nearly leaps from the side of Connie’s chair to stand in front of Jean, eyes wide and hands holding onto his shoulders as hard as they were when they were on Connie’s. “Isn’t he cute? He’s so cute, and that little blonde boy is a _doll_. Well what did you think? What did you have there? Did you get a fruit tart oh my _gods_  they’re absolutely heavenly. Oh did y—” 

“I went I went I went! Jesus Christ, _mom_.” Jean walks around Connie’s cubicle and grabs an empty chair from the next one over, wheeling it back and throwing himself in it once it’s next to Connie’s desk. “What of it?” 

“That’s my boy!” Connie punches him in the thigh and Jean _really_ wants to sock him on the shoulder, but Sasha’s ruffling his hair, so he forgets it.

Connie pulls Sasha back over by the waist and leans his head on her hip, smirk still firmly in place. “So? Muffin man’s cute, ain’t he?”

Jean drags his hands down his face and runs a hand his hair, now that it’s been thoroughly mussed. “He’s...freckly.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “He’s freckly. _That’s_  what you have to say about him? That he has _adorable_ freckles? He bakes for crying out loud, what more do you want?" 

“She’s got a point, Jean. He does make a wicked red velvet cake, I must say.”

“It’s true. Do you know how hard it is to make cream cheese frosting sweet but not tart and not so sweet that it makes you nauseous? That boy has a gods-given talent and you  _know_  he’s good with his hands. Imagine what his fingers could—” 

“ _Sasha_ , for crying out _loud!"_  Jean all but hisses, and he’s lucky that no one’s really paying attention to them at the moment because if they were to look over at the three of them, they’d see a very flustered Jean, a very condescending Connie, and a very drooly Sasha at the thought of red velvet.

Sasha sits on Connie’s lap and Connie wheels his way closer to Jean, voice still as jumpy, but hushed in saying, “So? What’d ya think, really?”

It’s hard to put into words because there are many things that Jeans thinks and Jean thinks about. He thinks on a daily basis about many aspects of life and work and a lot of these thoughts require serious time and effort when really focusing on them. But this is just a baker and his bakery. 

Jean could tell Connie and Sasha that he didn’t even meet him; he could say that he just saw some overly-chipper blonde boy with a shaggy looking mangy mutt of a co-worker and that Marco guy wasn’t around. He could say that the coffee was mediocre and the pastries were alright and it was just another bakery like the many in all of Manhattan. 

But he’d be lying. 

What can he tell them? That the atmosphere was warm and cozy and the best spot to do his work in? That he’d rather sit there and read than in his apartment? That he thinks the freckled baker was actually kinda cute despite meeting him only once before and the two kids at the counter looked alright and the books on the shelves looked absolutely _beyond_ enticing?

Does he tell them that he’s glad he went in?

No, because if he did, it’d be like admitting defeat. He’s much too proud for that. 

“It wasn’t too bad,” he winds up saying, and it doesn’t feel right on his tongue because it was more than “not too bad." Either way, they accept his answer and Sasha stops chiding him for his opinions.

 _(Dactylogram: a fingerprint)_  

 

* * *

 

Work demands to be done, and so after Jean watches Connie put the finishing touches on his creation for the supernatural book cover, Sasha takes it and runs to book the conference room at the end of the week to pitch it to sales and department heads. Jean bids them a temporary farewell and heads back downstairs to work on manuscript number two—some story that’s so dreadfully dull that requires the most attention and correction.

The day goes by rather slowly and the rain doesn’t let up as time progresses. As the sun goes down, it takes the temperature with it, and when Jean leaves the publish house at five, he buttons his coat to reign in whatever heat he can.

He doesn’t feel much like going home; home isn’t even an accurate word anymore, is nothing like how it should be. “Home” is synonymous with warmth and compassion and love, and none of that lies in wait for Jean to come back to after work every night. All he has is microwavable Campbell’s soups, a TV with more static than hair after a comb, and boxes of coffee and teas.

 

Plus, he told the kid at the register that he'd come back.  _Guess I have to go._  

Thankfully, it doesn’t take Jean more than twenty minutes to go from the publishing house to 23rd Street, and before he knows it, he’s staring at The Flour Patch sign for the second time today. He doesn’t know exactly why his heart is doing little kicks, but Jean assumes it’s because the promise of heat and shelter from the rain are horribly enticing.

Without another thought, he opens the door and walks in. 

There aren’t that many people occupying the chairs tonight—only two sit at the bar along the window and one person sits at a table. The plush chair Jean sat in last time remains vacant, and Jean sets his bag down on it before someone else can claim it. He sheds his pea coat and walks up to the counter to order something.

Jean doesn’t see who’s manning the register tonight because the man in front of him blocks his view, so he takes out his phone from his pocket and indulges in a quick few rounds of Flappy Bird before his turn at the counter is up. His bird dies about eight times before he hears a cheerful, “Welcome to The Flour Patch! What can I get you tonight?”

Jean looks up and his stomach drops down onto the floor.

Out of all three employees who work at the damn bakery, the freckled owner is taking charge of the register tonight. 

Jean doesn’t know if he’s happy or about to piss his pants. 

From what he can tell, Marco didn’t realize it was him either until Jean lifted his head from his phone, and it’s clear as day that his polite smile falters just a fraction. The red velvet cake in the display case next to him is reflecting on his cheeks to give an illusion of a blush, and he looks just as shocked as Jean probably feels. 

The only sound to be heard in the entire bakery, minus the tapping of keys as someone types on a laptop and the hissing of the ovens in the kitchen, is the sound of Jean’s Flappy Bird dying again.

Game over.


	4. Faith In A Cupcake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is fairy cupcakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HOLD UP!** i got some stuff!
> 
> [chelsea](https://twitter.com/Bodtany) did an adorable [tfp marco](https://twitter.com/Bodtany/status/557776885443489792) cosplay!
> 
> [matt](http://mattcokun.tumblr.com/) drew a [cute](https://twitter.com/freckIedmarco/status/570797904266276864) marco!
> 
> [coilyn](https://twitter.com/coilame) made a [tfp fanmix](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOsLcIBcIiDOmUMbyhszJ9D0SnwNpOmgI)!
> 
> go check those out.
> 
> i also wrote a side thing for pi day, so go check that out too! marco's a loser. thank you [kaden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gootbuttheichou/pseuds/Gootbuttheichou) for beta-ing <3
> 
> this chapter is actually dedicated to momma q (quartetship) for her fairy marco, my favorite. love u momma!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com/)

Jean has often pondered the idea of space, and it’s such a broad topic with so many in-betweens and unknowns that he’s really not sure what to think about it.

Jean likes definites in the real world and enjoys the mysteries and slight implications in the world of fiction. He likes the undisputable validation that are mathematical times tables, the cold hard facts of anatomy, and the honest-to-God truth and structure behind grammar and the English language. Only in fiction can Jean tolerate the untold and unknown, because that’s what makes literature so alluring. Books are gold mines for subtle references with maps and roads that lead to historical context, to crude humor and jokes, to hypocrisy and rebellions and exploitations. Books are as ambiguous and open as they are a solid weight that hold pages of paths considered and passageways untraveled. The unknown in literature is simply a _part_ of literature; it makes the obscurity of it more attractive, more engaging, more _wondrous,_ and Jean accepts and (wholeheartedly) embraces it.

Space is something else entirely; space is not a factual consolation or a certainty. Space is only partially discovered, and that scares Jean. It’s not that he fears what he doesn’t know, he just finds comfort in fact. Sure, we know about planets and types of galaxies and the magnitude of stars. We know the right ascension and declination of them and we know how to chart constellations; we know of the Milky Way, of calculating light years and the stars’ relevance to Greek mythology from ancient texts. We even made the discovery of the thirteenth zodiac Ophiuchus, even if it does still go overlooked by 90% of the population. Space is fascinating in it’s own right, not just because of all the things we’re already aware of and have gotten down to a science, but for all the things we _don’t_ know. We don’t know what lies beyond our galaxy, if there are actually other life forms already in existence. We sure as _hell_ don’t know how big space is, if it ends at some point and if there’s something, anything that lies beyond the boundary. _Is_ there a boundary? What happens when space runs out? What happens when our technology can only go so far? What happens to the people who can’t rest knowing there’s still so much left to be found, so much left to explore? What happens to the uneasy, to those who cannot find peace with themselves until the vast expanse of the universe is entirely recorded and mapped out and picked apart? 

No one knows. No one knows how far space goes, what we still have yet to learn of and where our own limits will stop us from progressing or when they’ll present themselves to us and say “no more”. There’s a lot we don’t know and a lot that we’ll probably _never_ know. Maybe technology will advance and we’ll go further than we ever thought possible. Maybe, by some stroke of fate in our favor, we’ll travel and go beyond the limits we’ve placed on ourselves, limits that have been placed on us by everyone else. Maybe we’ll find out answers to our theories and put experiments to the test that prove us wrong.   

For not knowing a lot about space, scientists do know a fair amount, a _commendable_ amount,  and their knowledge only expands as their research continues to grow.

But Jean is not a scientist. Jean is a 25-year-old editor at a publishing house in New York City. Jean does not know if life can be sustained on Mars or how long supernovas last or what makes the Seahorse Galaxy actually look like a seahorse. He reads the newspaper and browses through articles in his spare time, but that’s all he is - a spectator. And what scares him the most is that space has the potential to be so big and so vast and holds _so much in it_ that the majority of it will go undetermined, and human beings will just never find out the whole truth.

There’s a lot of “what if’s” and “maybe’s,” but we can only do so much with a concept too large to understand.

In the middle of all of it, there’s a term Jean finds interesting, something called “spaghettification.” It says, in the simplest of terms, that should anything fall in the boundaries of the black hole’s gravitational pull, it’ll get sucked in and stretched, like spaghetti, from the forces of the hole itself. It’s a word that sugarcoats the horrors of a void you can never escape. It sugarcoats the breaking of bone, the stretching of muscle, the stretching of your entire _self_ to the point of nonexistence so fast you don’t even have time to wonder what’s happening, because it’s not just your body being mutilated—you cease to exist faster than you can say “Oh shit.”

You can circle the void, but once you’re within reach of that pull, you’re sucked in with no escape, stretched and tugged to the point of tearing and put through the roller, just like spaghetti.

Needless to say, Jean finds it a captivating concept. It’s an amusing image. Grotesque, but amusing.

Jean is not a scientist by any means, nor does he have any plans to be, but standing in front of the counter in The Flour Patch across from the man he was looking for that same morning is everything _but_ amusing. If anything, it makes him wish a black hole would fabricate beneath his feet and suck him into his own personal void so he can experience spaghettification firsthand. He’d much rather his existence be wiped from reality and be lost in the abyss than stare at the very freckly owner of this very bakery.

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring, but it’s one of those instances where the English language fails him and words are fleeting and his tongue feels like it’s thick and kind of swollen and his eyes are wide and he’s staring.

Jean smells the cinnamon and the coffee.

“Uhm,” is his intelligent greeting.

“Uhm,” Marco mirrors, and if speech could find _him_ , he’s sure he’d be much more put-together. “Hi, welcome back. What can—”

“Coffee. I’ll have coffee. Coffee is good.” Jean cuts Marco off mid-sentence, and once he realizes how rude that was, his jaw drops and his eyes widen and there’s a feeling in his chest similar to that of a black hole swallowing him from the inside instead of at his feet.

Marco doesn’t know what to say, or even think, for that matter. He partly wants to go run into the kitchen and hide and have Armin take care of the counter for a little while so he can do something, _anything_ but be up front, but the other part of him wants to stay; the past two months were spent feeling guilty over how he had treated him, and after Marco was convinced he’d never come back, here he is, standing in front of him at the counter. He looks worse than a deer in the headlights, but he’s here, even if he does seem a little off from what Marco remembers.

He’s relieved and he’s nervous, but Marco knows he just has to push forward if he wants some sort of closure and finally put to rest the most horrible experience in his bakery to date. He puts on a smile, he nods his head, opting to ignore the interruption, and says without really thinking it over, “Medium hot coffee, milk, sugar, touch of cinnamon, right? Unless you wanted something else?” Jean doesn’t trust his mouth again so he just nods and watches Marco go about making his drink.

Marco is fast in his movements; practiced, automatic. It’s an efficient quickness, the fast that tells of repetition.

It’s not until Marco is ringing up his freshly brewed cup that Jean realizes Marco remembered his order.

“That’ll be two forty-five,” Marco says, so low it’s hard for Jean to catch, but when Jean looks at him, Marco's eyes are fixated on the digitized numbers on the register. He lifts his gaze when he realizes Jean hasn’t moved a muscle, and gives the faintest of smiles in hopes that it eases whatever tension is building.

After digging around in his pocket for the five-dollar bill he keeps handy just for his bakery trips, Jean offers it to Marco and gets his change not a minute later.

“Thank you. Enjoy the coffee.”

Jean twirls the coffee cup in his hand once, twice, looking at the angles of the bakery logo printed on the white cup and watches as some of the liquid comes out the drinking spout of the lid. He mumbles a single thank you, not sparing another glance at the register or the man behind it, and walks back to his favorite plush chair right next to the books where his briefcase awaits his return.

He’s an idiot. And he knows it.

It’s stupid, this whole thing is stupid. Jean got up this morning and came to The Flour Patch on a last-minute whim and didn’t catch him, then he went to the office to deal with Thing One and Thing Two’s lunacy, and now, not only is he back at the bakery for the second time in the same day, he’s being a total dick. 

Jean has yet to sit down, the back of his knees hitting the cushion of the chair, and he contemplates walking back to the counter to apologize or say something, but his body has a different idea and falls back onto the seat. It’s so overstuffed that Jean sinks into the cushions, and he hates himself, because if he wasn’t so damn tired from the day’s order of events and if he wasn’t so indecisive, he’d get up. He’d get up and march right back to that counter with the excuse of a long work day and an apology. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, cradling his cup of coffee that feels like silk on his tongue and that was never made by anyone quite as good as it was made for him.

He wants to get up, he really does. 

But he doesn’t have to, because Marco's standing right next to him. 

Jean didn’t notice. He didn’t notice Marco walking to stand next to his chair, he didn’t notice his tense shoulders as his timid steps drew him closer, the worried crease to his brow that he’s trying to mask with a polite smile, and he most definitely didn’t notice his posture was absolutely screaming uncomfortable. 

Marco clears his throat, and now Jean notices. He sees the clutching of a tissue paper cookie bag held in both hands with arms that are glued to the center of his chest. He sees the rise of his eyebrows that ask for silent apologies for interrupting Jean’s small bout of personal reflection. What troubles him the most is when Jean hears the small, barely detectable crack in his voice when Marco says, “Excuse me.” 

Jean didn’t notice, but he’s noticing now.

Jean lifts his gaze from the wrapped something in Marco’s hands to his eyes, and that liquid toffee does nothing to quell his increasing interest.

English is Jean’s best friend; it’s the only thing he’s ever known and the only thing he’s ever loved. But god _damn_ does it fuck him over when he has to speak.

“I, uhm…” Marco squeezes the bag a little tighter, the crinkling of the tissue paper the loudest sound within a ten-foot radius. “I know you didn’t order one but uh, here. You can have it.” 

Marco holds the bag out, and over the mouth of it, Jean can see a round edge of a giant chocolate chip cookie. He can also see a slight tremble travel from Marco’s hands to the shaking pastry bag, but Jean doesn’t give it too much thought; if he were the one holding that wrapped cookie, he’d probably be doing the same. 

Jean remembers a petite blonde girl sitting at her laptop, and he remembers Marco giving her some sort of pastry to cheer her up. She had smiled for the rest of her time in the bakery that day.

“I thought you said you couldn’t do this all the time?” Jean looks up from the trembling bag to see Marco’s face, and he can tell what he said wasn’t exactly the right thing. 

Marco is at a loss for what to do, at this point. This is his form of an apology, of an “I’m sorry for how I treated you last time, let’s start fresh.” He understands, he even expects, this man to be a little angry, but he didn’t think he was _that_ rude before.

But while he is confused and interested and bewildered, he’s relieved. If he was really and truly displeased with Marco’s customer service skills and how he had treated him those two months ago, Jean wouldn’t have come back. And here he is, sitting in the comfiest chair in the entire bakery. 

Marco doesn’t allow the question to get to him, and even if it did, it wouldn’t stop the smirk on his face. “I know, but it’s my bakery. I do what I want.”

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Jean laughs.

It’s not a quiet chuckle or a booming roar, but it’s genuine, light, and his cheeks ache from disuse by the time he stops to see that the crease on Marco’s forehead is gone and the fake smile is replaced with something Jean believes is a relaxing kind of contentment. 

Marco looks to the loveseat next to Jean after his laughter dies down, a now friendly tilt to his head. “Do you mind if I…?” Jean thinks it’s strange that he has to request permission to sit on a sofa in his own bakery, but he nods his head in approval, and Marco walks the few feet to the loveseat.

Whatever tension there was earlier has melted away, leaving an odd sense of friendliness, but Marco’s shoulders have yet to fully ease their tautness, and so Jean waits, finding it appropriate to grant him some space and time to figure out what he’d like to say without interrupting this time.

“I uhm,” Marco begins, looking from Jean to his shoes, “I didn’t think you were going to come back.”

Jean curious and kind of confused, prods him to ask, “Why’s that?”

“Well,” Marco's fingers begin to play with the serrated edging of the bag’s opening, watching as the jagged pieces of paper bend as his fingertips push it down and spring back up when he lets go. Marco huffs, his shoulders hunching over once more. “The last time you were here, do you remember?” 

 _You mean this morning when you_ _weren’t?_ Jean thinks to himself, but opts not to say it aloud. He does remember—Jean remembers how bubbly and open Marco was, how genuinely happy he seemed serving people and getting their orders ready. He remembers the smiles everyone left with and watched them only widen as they walked down the block and out of sight.

Jean has met this man all of two times, and already he can see just how strong of an impact Marco has on everyone he meets, no matter how short or how long of a time he spends with them. 

Jean starts to wonder if maybe this freckly baker has affected _him_ in some way, if he’s sprinkled some sort of supernatural magic in his coffee that makes him keep wanting to visit the bakery and talk to the person who owns it. Whatever it is, Jean thinks it’s working. It’s hard to tell if he even cares. 

“Yes, I remember.”

“Then you remember how awfully I treated you! I—” Marco pauses, taking a breath to calm himself and stuff the bitter aftertaste of disgrace down down down like he was always taught to do. He clears his throat. “I was rude and not professional and I’m really, really sorry. I just—after you didn’t come back I got really worried I scared you off, I was just caught off-guard that night, I guess. So,” Marco holds out the chocolate chip cookie and gives Jean a wavering, but sincere, apologetic grin. “I’m sorry for how I treated you, I’m happy you’re back, and I hope you can forgive my behavior.” 

Jean is...confused, among other things. He doesn’t remember Marco being mean to him and he most _certainly_ doesn’t remember feeling any degree of offended or angry towards Marco. It’s been just the opposite, that Jean can recall; he’s been interested in him and his conduct, yes, but not because he was rude—because he was _happy_.

Very few people are in love with what they do; it’s just not a common notion you hear when someone talks about their job. They hate their boss, it’s not what they really want to do, it’s too tedious, too long, their co-worker’s suck, they do too much work for not enough money. People grow up with dreams and goals and aspirations they never meet, and so they get stuck with something they hate and continuously reach towards what it is they really want, only to be met with a fistful of air and bitter disappointment.

It’s rare to see someone so in their element, so in love with their profession, and what gravitates Jean toward Marco is his love for what he does, because Jean feels the same way, feels how much Marco cares about his bakery. Being an editor was the only thing Jean ever wanted to do; it ties everything he loves together, from books and the language itself, to words that formulate sentences that go beyond something as trivial as “talent.” The only two people Jean knows that love their professions, minus the fact that they’re his only friends, really, are Connie and Sasha. They’re the biggest goofballs in the entire state, but they’re damn good at what they do because they _love_ _it._ When you’re in a place that holds everything you want, you do much better work because you put your heart into everything it comes with. There’s a reason Sasha’s been given the title of Chief Creative Officer, and there’s a reason that Connie became the Chief Cover Artist of Penguin Publishing. They compliment each other in personality, but also in passion. Connie’s book covers are unmatched in skill, in creativity, and in imagination, and Sasha’s marketing tactics are unique, demand attention, and push the boundaries of standard advertising. They have talent, yes, but they work harder than anyone Jean’s ever known, and that, combined with the driving passion they have at the very core of who they are for what they do, is what makes them so successful, and better yet, so _happy._

If Jean stops to think about it, he gravitates towards people who love something with all their heart, who give absolutely everything into the object of their affections. Even if it’s not work, or treated like work, Jean sees it in people and it’s something he truly, truly loves. There is nothing like seeing someone light up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree during the holidays over something they devote all their time, energy, and passion to. He only wishes he was able to see it more often, because it’s so rare to come by these days. 

But Jean feels how much happiness this store brings Marco in both times that he’s met him. He can feel it in the atmosphere that this is not a bakery, it’s a home, _Marco’s_ home. He doesn’t know what there is about it—the neutral-colored accents, the customers, the store as a whole—but whatever it is, Jean knows, can _feel_ how much appreciation and time went into this place. He knows how much this bakery means to Marco without even really knowing him, because when he smiles at his customers with a grin so full of compassion for someone he only just met; when Marco goes from table to table asking how everything is and if he can get these people anything else; when Marco does something as simple as give someone a free pastry because he can see the tough time they’re having.

Marco’s heart is full of love for his home, and anyone with eyes can see that this is more than just another Manhattan bakery looking to make money.

Jean regrets saying that to Sasha and Connie because now he knows how wrong it was of him to say.

So Jean takes the cookie. He takes the cookie and he takes the biggest bite his mouth can handle. He doesn’t even have time to savor it, just shoves the entire thing in his mouth, giant bite by giant bite, gets crumbs all over his blazer, and takes a swig of his coffee to wash it all down. He ignores the minor burn it leaves on his taste buds, but it’s worth it.

When he’s done and he can breathe, Jean lets out a gasp, grinning at Marco. “Apology accepted, although you didn’t even need to make one in the first place.” 

Marco hasn’t laughed so hard in such a long time. He doesn’t even remember what it felt like for his stomach to hurt so much that it felt like he would rip at the seams if he carried on, but now he remembers, because he can’t feel his face. He snorts once, twice, nearly three times and he’s positively rolling in the love seat. Tears are pouring down his face and at the sound of a definite third snort, it’s Jean’s turn to start laughing.

They look ridiculous. Marco’s fallen backwards and is laying on his back on the chair in hysterics with his hands covering his face as he laughs, and Jean is trying not to spill his coffee in one hand while his other covers his mouth as he tries to suppress his cackles over Marco nearly busting an artery right next to him. 

It takes them a little while to calm down, but after they’ve done so, Marco wipes at his eyes and Jean brushes the leftover crumbs from his jacket.

They look at each other and smile, Marco’s cheeks still hurting and Jean’s hand burning from the coffee cup, but he doesn’t really care.

Marco holds out his hand, a much brighter, much more confident smile on his face than when he first walked over. “Shall we start over?”

Jean nods and slides his hand into Marco’s. “Jean Kirschtein—editor and cinnamon coffee lover. S’nice to meet you.”

“Marco Bodt—baker and pastry enthusiast. It’s a pleasure.”

 

* * *

 

After their second meeting, Marco and Jean talk. They actually have a conversation that isn’t laced with insults and spontaneous disrespect, and the more they reveal, the more their first incident is put behind them and on the road to being forgotten.

Marco learns a lot about Jean. Marco finds him to be quite shy, using his hands to hide his mouth when he talks about work or something else he’s terribly fond of out of fear that he’ll be shut down, almost as if he’s not used to talking about such a meaningful part of himself. Marco notices that Jean has nervous tics; he constantly pushes up his glasses by the bridge, he bites the left side of his lip and continuously crosses and uncrosses his ankles. He’s proven to be quite bright, but not like the sun, more like a full moon; it’s a unique radiance, a soft reminder that something just as beautiful and unique does exist, even it it comes in stages and only peaks at certain intervals. Even so, Marco finds these little tidbits of Jean to be intriguing. He forgot how nice it is to learn things about someone new.

Marco pays attention when Jean tells him about his job at Penguin, the manuscripts he works on and how taxing it can be. He listens about his two best friends who sound like hyperactive overgrown children, but watches as Jean seems to open up when talking about them. He watches Jean loosen, letting go of the coffee cup that weighed him to his chair in favor of putting it on the coffee table in front of him and sitting on the edge of his seat. Marco learns that he doesn’t live in Manhattan, that he lives in Queens and comes into the city every morning to go to work. Marco listens to whatever Jean has to offer him, which is far more than he expected, and Marco feels relieved of the nameless discomfort that sat on his shoulders during the two months of Jean's absence. In its place comes a flooding feeling of interest, warmth, and simmering curiosity.

Jean learns a lot about Marco in return for the information he feeds him. Jean listens as Marco tells him that the bakery is his pride and joy, has been open only for a few months and yet he feels like it’s been forever. Jean sees that Marco’s eyes twinkle like the millions of stars in space and his smile is as radiant as the sun. He sees Marco glow as he talks about opening his doors and meeting people and being in his little shop. Jean picks up on Marco’s wild hand gestures and grand show of excitement, and he knows that the pull he feels toward him is as inescapable as the gravitational pull of a black hole, only now, it's welcome.

Jean knows fuck-all about space. He knows there are three types of galaxies, and stars twinkle while planets shine. He knows that shooting stars bring about hundreds of wishes and the reason the sky is blue is not because of the ocean’s reflection, but because blue light is scattered more than other colors by molecules in the air and it travels as shorter, smaller waves. Jean knows that binary stars are two stars orbiting each other around their common center of mass and they just go around and around and around, circling each other and never deviating from their path.

There is a certain amount of space that Jean knows and has no clue about, but if Marco can exist with eyes that bright and a heart that big and a smile that sincere, well, it can’t be all that bad.

 

* * *

 

Jean and Marco talk about themselves, their hobbies and work, the friends they have. After Jean goes into more animated detail about Connie and Sasha, he remembers the other two employees in the bakery and recalls Pillsbury Dough Boy calling the other one a shaggy dog. Jean figures that while they’re on the topic, there’s no harm in asking. 

“So who are the other two that work here? That blonde kid and the shaggy dog?” 

Marco grins and suppresses a giggle. “I see you’ve met Armin and Eren.”

“Yeah, I uhm, I was here earlier. They said you weren’t around, so I came back.” 

Choosing not to comment on the fact that he _was_ in the bakery, he was just _napping_ , Marco nods his head and scratches his nose. “Sorry about that, I had something to catch up on.”

“No worries. So which one’s Aaron and which one’s Armeen?” 

Marco bites his lip and looks over Jean’s shoulder to see Armin cleaning the unoccupied tables and Eren helping a customer at the counter. He pats Jean’s shoulder, telling him to turn around, and he points to the two of them. “ _Eren_ is the one at the counter with the brown hair, and _Armin_ is the one over there cleaning the tables.” 

“Got it. Tell them I said sorry for this morning, I was a bit of a jerk. Not really fully there without morning coffee, y’know?” Marco nods his head, knowing full well what some customers are like at 6:15 AM without their daily dose of caffeine to jump-start their days.

From the kitchen, a small timer goes off, and Marco immediately looks to Eren and Armin for confirmation that it’s not an oven timer, but the closing-time timer. They both turn to look at Marco at the exact same time, and Eren runs back into the kitchen. He emerges not a few seconds later with a thumbs up, and Marco realizes he and Jean have been sitting in the same spot for a little over an hour and twenty minutes with thirty minutes until closing.

“Six-thirty, Marco!” Eren shouts from behind the counter, and Marco gives a curt wave to acknowledge the time.

Jean watches Marco’s face fall some and offers a grin. “Almost closing time?”

“Yeah,” Marco runs a hand in his hair and looks around the bakery to see what still needs to be done—the stray books still need to be put away, the ovens need to cool down, he has to wash all the mixers and spoons and take whatever’s left of the pastries from the day out of the cases and into refrigerators and freezers. 

Jean looks down at his coffee cup, half empty and gone cold from just sitting there instead of being inhaled like it usually is. “I can help, if you want.” He looks down at his lap, interlocking his fingers and pressing the pads of his thumbs together. “I know there’s only three of you, and it’s gotta take some time to close up.”

Marco’s attention snaps from the register to Jean in an instant, stunned that he’d even offer, but he waves off the Jean's suggestion of assistance and stands up to smooth out his apron. “I appreciate it, but that’s okay. Armin and Eren have done some of what needs finishing, so it shouldn’t take us too long.”

“Are you sure? It’s really not a problem, I don’t have anywhere to be or anything.” 

“Thank you, really, but it’s okay. Go home, Jean. Get some sleep.”

Nodding his head, mostly to himself, Jean stands too and turns around to fetch the scarf draped over the back of his chair. He folds it in half, drapes it around his neck, and pulls the end of it through the loop. His pea coat goes on and before he knows it, the remaining three or four people who stuck around the shop trickle out the front doors. Eren, Armin, Jean and Marco are the only ones left in the bakery. 

Jean buries his nose in his scarf and stuffs his hands into his pockets, one hand fiddling with the pen cap from his pen inside it. 

Does he just say goodbye? Does he wave, act like an old friend and leave? What is he’s supposed to do? He doesn’t even feel like leaving yet, doesn’t want to return to the empty shell of an apartment with a wheezing radiator as his only company. The warmth is _here_ , in the plush chair next to the bookshelves in a bakery he’s only been in three times and wants to remain in. The atmosphere he always seeks out, that’s filled with friendship and compassion and openness, but is calm and relaxing and quiet enough to get work done or read a book if he so chooses is _here._ His apartment is quiet, but it’s been quiet since they left, and it’s not comforting, it’s eerie. Unwelcome. Foreign. 

Jean can be here and be quiet, but be surrounded by people. _That’s_ what’s comforting. Being by himself in a tiny space with no trace of the qualities a home should have is not what Jean wants, not where he wants to be.

But closing time is closing time, and Jean has to leave.

There’s always tomorrow.

 _(Astringe: to draw together, to tighten.)_  

“I uhm,” Marco starts, lacing his hands behind his back tilting his head a fraction. “I hope to see you again soon.” 

No one has ever said that. Not one person. Not family, not friends, not a professor—no one. And it’s mostly because Jean never had them; his parents left after college, he never really had someone he called a “friend” until his sophomore year of university, he had no connection to his professors on a personal level, and the only time he even tried to date, he backed out because he wasn’t even that interested.

No one has actively said to Jean Peter Kirschtein “I hope to see you again” in any fashion. 

Jean realizes this the moment Marco says it, because it’s not something he’s familiar with at all, but he’s not sad and he’s not angry that he’s never heard it in all his twenty-five years.

He’s happy because Marco was the first person to say it, and if Jean could pick anyone in the entire world who he’d rather hear it from first, Marco is definitely not a bad choice. And it happened. And Jean doesn’t feel so bad about returning to his apartment anymore, because someone wants to see him again. Going back means returning, and the promise of a return is enough to quell the woes of leaving.

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be here. Is uh, is tomorrow morning too soon? I could use some coffee before work that’s not from a Keurig machine. If that’s okay with you.”

“Sounds good to me. See you tomorrow morning, Jean. Get home safe.” Marco gives Jean a parting wave and a parting smile, and it feels more like a parting gift than an interim farewell.

Jean watches Marco run over to Armin and rub the back of his head, saying a few words before he’s hustling back to the kitchen to shut down for the night.

He remembers that girl Marco gave the pastry to that first time he was in the bakery again, and he remembers her leaving with a much brighter and happier expression than the gloomy one she wore pre-pastry.

Jean leaves the bakery with a wave over his shoulder and a smile brighter than that girl, and he dares to call it “The Marco Effect.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me I didn’t even realize what time it was, I swear!” 

The garbage has been taken out, all the tables were wiped down, the pastries are in the fridge and everything is as it should be for opening tomorrow morning. The only problem was that Marco didn't do his fair share because he was so busy chatting up Jean that he lost track of time and it was too late to help more.

Which is why the three of them are standing in the kitchen, Armin and Eren right next to each other with arms folded looking like parents scolding their child, and Marco stands across from them trying to defend himself. 

“I swear I didn’t mean to sit with him for so long, I really didn’t. And hey, you didn’t even tell me he came by this morning while I was _asleep_. You didn’t even wake me up!”

“Nope, don’t go turning this on us, muffin man,” Eren shakes his head and wags his finger like a true father. “How much sleep did you get last night, hmm? Five hours? Six?”

“Three.”

“ _Three_ hours, Marco. Three. You never sleep, I hardly think taking a nap when the bakery has zero people in it is a bad thing.”

“Yeah, but—”

Armin takes the reins from Eren in chiding Marco in saying, “Marco, it’s fine. You got to recharge and it wasn’t something we couldn’t handle. We would’ve come to get you if we really needed you, and a little nap did you some good. Besides, he didn’t leave his phone number or his name before he left. Super grumpy guy, I didn’t even realize it was the same one you’ve been fretting over for a while until he left.”

Marco groans and covers his face with both hands, heaving a sigh and sagging his shoulders. “I was no help today. First I nap at work and then I make you guys do all the cleaning. I’m really sorry.” 

“Uuuuugh Marco shut up.” Eren, taking off the Dad facade, walks over to give Marco a hug. “It’s really okay, we don’t actually care. Just get some sleep tonight, okay?”

Armin follows suit, ruffling Marco’s hair and tugging at the loose curls on his neck. “It’s fine, Marco, we were happy to help today.” 

“We’re taking home today’s leftover pastries. Would that ease your poor, overworked soul, my fine freckly friend?” Eren lets go of Marco and leans toward the giant metal fridge that practically has his name written all over it. 

Marco just rolls his eyes and laughs, extending a tired hand towards the fridge door, and Eren hisses a “ _Yes”_ before emptying out the entire fridge of every pastry it holds.

Eren and Armin leave with handfuls of bags of pastry, half that they’ll keep for themselves, and half that they’ll bring to the home; the staff love when they bring Marco’s baked goods, and Carla usually enjoys the rainbow cookies.

After seeing them out the back door of the kitchen for the night, Marco double checks the lock on the front doors of the bakery, shuts the remaining lights off, and heads upstairs to his apartment for the night.

He showers and gets into bed, but before he falls asleep, he changes the time on his alarm to wake him up a little later. Armin was right when he said Marco never sleeps, so forgoing his exercises in the morning for one night wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he thinks.

With his face to the ceiling and his fingers laced over his stomach, Marco heaves a sigh and grins to himself.

He came back. Not only did he come back, but he _stayed_. He ate his cookie and drank his coffee, but the most important thing was that he laughed. Marco thinks back to the Jean he first met, the distant, shy shell he seemed to be. It’s a wonder that the Jean he met the first time and the Jean he met tonight are the same person.

But he knows. Marco knows the first Jean wasn't on purpose. Regardless, Marco is happy to have the weight on his mind removed, happy that he can make another friend out of a customer.

 

 

* * *

 

The rain has let up by the time Jean leaves The Flour Patch, and the sky is as clear as New York City air pollution allows it to be. He can see a few stars if he squints really hard. 

Jean takes his time getting home tonight. It’s been years, _years_ , since Jean looked forward to going “home," and that was when his apartment was just that. Now, of course, it doesn’t mean anything; it’s not sentimental and it’s nothing special, it’s just where he eats, sleeps, and showers.

Jean wants to go back to Queens. Jean wants to leave Manhattan right now, hop on his train from Penn Station to Bayside and catch the Q27 bus to 73rd Avenue and walk the few blocks to his apartment. He wants to eat his stupid microwavable soup and watch the news on his stupid staticky TV and make a dent in the manuscript he’s working on. He doesn’t want to go back, but he does.

The sooner he reaches his apartment, the sooner he comes back the next morning.

And it’s weird for Jean. This whole thing is weird, because he’s never had something like this. His only reference for friendship is with Connie and Sasha, but they’re more like family at this point than best friends. Jean doesn’t remember how to keep conversations interesting or how to keep it flowing; Thing One and Thing Two pretty much do that themselves, what with their excitable nature and fascination. Jean doesn’t know what being too forward is or what “too soon” means, because what does that entail? Do friendships have guidelines? Is there some manual he can download on how to make friends?

Jean doesn’t know; he barely knows how to deal with the two biggest goofballs in the state.

But he wants to try.

He wants to figure Marco out, why he’s so genuine in everything he does and what drives him. Jean is interested in Marco purely because he’s unique in a lot of ways, a lot of which Jean doesn’t understand, and he wants to learn. Why a bakery and not a crafts store. Why a bakery and not a bookshop or a hardware store or a pet store. Jean wants to pick him apart, not in the sense that it dehumanizes, but just the opposite—so that it connects. He wants to find the threads that lead to explanations and reasoning. He just really wants to know, and normally he’d ignore this burning inquisitiveness, but Marco is not an ordinary person, and when does Jean meet someone as rare a human being as this baker?

It’s kind of unsettling too, and Jean rolls around the thought of wanting to analyze a person rather than literature, for once, as he begins his trek down the eleven blocks to Penn Station.

Jean is not necessarily a people person. He is a people person when he wants to be and when it interests him, but other than that, he likes to keep to himself and only exchanges any form of communication when absolutely necessary. When he’s at work, his mental mode changes; phone calls and live interactions are a must, doing what he does, and Jean has learned to automatically switch off any lingering anxieties or worries about having to emerge from his own company.

As he sits on the train, chin in hand and a million miles away, Jean wonders what makes this Marco guy so special, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Marco wakes up feeling well-rested, as if he had slept twelve hours as opposed to the rare seven he had last night. He practically springs from his bed, arms stretched high over his head, and grants a passing grin towards the closed curtains that mask the singing birds beyond the window it conceals. Marco is reminded that the harsh winter they endured has passed, and spring is finally starting to show its face to Manhattan. 

He parts his curtains and sees a lone hummingbird perched on a branch, ruffling its feathers and halfheartedly beating at the bark of the trunk with its beak. An oriole—uncommon in New York City, as are most things—lands gently next to it, and the two take off to circle each other in mid-air, flying away from the safe branches of the tree and onto something new and much more promising. He can hear their chirping and buzzing as they get smaller and smaller, the distance only growing, but the distance between them decreasing the farther they go. 

Marco gets an idea.

After the quickest shower of his life and stomping down the stairs to the back door of the bakery, Marco flings the door open to reveal the not-so-unusual sight of Armin half asleep and Eren holding him steady.

“Cupcakes, Eren!” 

“Cupcakes, Marco?”

“Wha—”

“Cupcakes, you two! Come on, come on, come on!”

Marco ushers his friends through the door and locks it behind them, nearly pushing them into the kitchen. Having taken out some of the ingredients he’ll need for the day, Eren and his sleepy boyfriend take in the sight of the countertops completely covered in bags of sugar, pans, cupcake molds, unfilled piping bags and their nozzles among bowls and spoons at the ready. 

“So. Cupcakes.”

Marco puts both hands on his hips. “Not just any cupcakes. Fairy cupcakes.”

Eren and Armin look at each other, confused, then look back at Marco, then back at each other, and then back at Marco. Armin’s eyes are half open, but already he knows this is going to be a project and a headache. “Fairy...cupcakes.”

“Yes! Fairy cupcakes!” Marco’s arms shoot to the ceiling and he’s actually beaming over the idea of fairy cupcakes.

Eren walks over to stand next to Marco, observing the table of ingredients Marco has in mind to use, and scratches his chin. “S’a little too much sugar, don’t you think?”

“Nope. I’m going to be working with spun sugar today. Armin, do you mind postponing your nap ‘til later?”

Armin nods mid-yawn, holding up one finger and walking towards the front of the bakery while muttering, “Mhmm, ‘m just gonna put up a pot a’ coffee so I have somethin’ to keep me awake. Y’want any, guys?” Eren bites his lip to suppress a smile (to no avail), and Marco gives a cheerful “No thanks!” before turning back to the task at hand. Armin nods and slinks to the front to brew his saving grace.

“Too cute,” Eren says to himself as he turns his attention back to Marco’s direction, and Marco laughs in agreement.

“Alright, so,” Marco runs to the other side of the kitchen to fetch the rest of the ingredients for the cupcakes and says to Eren with his head still in the fridge, “you’re going to make the cupcakes. Remember the first recipe I ever taught you and Armin back in November?”

“You mean ‘Grandma’s Golden Cakes’?” Eren shouts over his shoulder. 

“Yes.” Marco returns with eggs, milk, whisks, and vanilla extract. “You’re going to make one hundred of them. And Ar—” 

Eren, wide-eyed and incredulous at the sheer amount of cupcakes he’s assigned to bake, balks at his boss. “Oh, you’ve gotta be _kidding,_ Marco!” 

“Hey!” Marco takes the four empty cupcake trays and fills them with yellow cupcake liners, clad perfectly in Spring time decorations. “You’re on baking the cupcakes and buttercream frosting, Armin is piping, and I’m doing the spun sugar.”

Eren visibly deflates, shoulders sagging and a small pout forming, but he cheers right back up. “That’s alright, I like this recipe.”

“Good. Okay, I think you’re all set to go. Let me set up some of Armin’s station too, and then we’re in business. One-hundred now, one-hundred for the afternoon, and about thirty later.”

Marco rolls up his sleeves and sets to making the frosting for the piping bags. Heaps of powdered sugar and butter are put in one of the mixing bowls, and Marco sets the speed on low so he can incorporate the vanilla and some milk. When the frosting is at a spreadable and smooth consistency, Marco shuts off the mixer, takes a rubber spatula, and starts separating the frosting into three smaller bowls, one of them with more frosting than the other two. He mutters to himself that he forgot the food coloring as he’s distributing, and he dashes to a cabinet over Eren’s head for the box once he’s finished. In one bowl, he puts a significant amount of drops of blue; in another, a few drops of red, and in the last, drops of green. Marco twirls a rubber spatula in his fingers a few times, whistling to the song Armin put on the radio up front (that is most definitely _not_ Taylor Swift this time; no more poppy seed bagel songs) and begins to mix the red dye into the glaze.  

The red starts off as a swirl, thick lines of it circling the spatula as Marco stirs, and eventually, it evens out and blends in to create a rosy red. After grabbing a pair of scissors, Marco cuts a small hole at the bottom of the piping bag and attaches the finest and thinnest piece to the bottom. He scoops the red icing into the bag, twists the end, and ties it so it’s ready for Armin to use. He repeats the same with the green icing, watching as the swirls of white and dark green merge into pastel mint. The bag is twisted, tied, and ready to go with the same nozzle as the red bag. Marco leaves the giant bowl of blue frosting for Eren, but makes him a piping bag to start with, screwing on a circular, wide-mouthed nozzle for the cupcakes. 

Armin returns from behind the front counter, a giant cup of coffee in hand and a much more attentiveness to his mannerisms. 

“He lives!” Eren shouts, shoving the first huge tray of cupcakes into the oven and getting started on the second. 

“Ha ha, very funny.” Armin walks over to his station, setting down his coffee cup and reaching under his counter for the white towel he always hooks into the strings at the waist of his apron to wipe excess frosting off from his fingers. “Piping?”

“Yes, hold on oooone second.” Marco, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, the product of excessive concentration, sets up the biggest pot he owns on the front burner of the stove. He pours in an abundance of sugar, nearly the entire bag, and some water before he ignites the flame and heads over to Armin. “Your bags are made already, and once Eren’s cupcakes cool down, he’s going to pipe the blue on top of them. Once he’s done, he’ll pass them over to you, and I want you to pipe one of whatever flower you want - a rose, a tulip, whichever - but pipe it towards the bottom right or left. You can alternate, if you want. That okay?”

Armin nods his head and rolls up his sleeves. “Simple enough.”

“Perfect.” Marco returns to his sugar project just in time to watch the sugar start to bubble. He watches it carefully, eyes of a hawk, and after a few minutes, the sugar has turned from translucent to a tinted caramel color. Marco shuts off the heat, careful to avoid the edges of the pot, and heaves it from it’s burner to another one so he can add green food coloring to change the tint and let it sit. It cools for a few minutes after the green has blended, and the previous fluid consistency has morphed into a very malleable drip, almost like a gel. Smiling at his handiwork, Marco fetches the two-dollar baby food bowl he found at the supermarket last week, and he’s ecstatic that he finally gets to put it to good use. It’s one of those thick bowls mothers buy for their infants, but this one is shaped like fairy wings - just right for spun sugar. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re using that as a sugar mold. Shit’ll melt so fast Marco, please tell me you know this,” Eren offers with a whine.

Marco rolls his eyes, grabbing a metal fork from the utensil cup and dips it into the cooling sugar. “I think I know what I’m doing, Eren. But thanks.” 

“Funny, I seem to recall you saying the exact same thing the first time you spun sugar with us. You still have that scar, don’t you?” 

Marco puffs his cheeks and chooses not to instigate Eren any further, even though he’s right. 

The first time Marco had spun sugar in front of Eren and Armin, it was back in November, when he was first teaching them the basics of baking in his tiny apartment upstairs. Marco had brought out his recipe book, and, thinking cupcakes to be a simple start, broke out the “Grandma’s Golden Cakes” recipe and took it from there. He doesn’t really remember why he chose to spun sugar _then_ , of all times, but he did, and instead of keeping his eye on the sugar like he’s now learned to do, Marco had dipped his fork into the still scalding, bubbling liquid and a single drop landed on the spot right between his thumb and forefinger on his left hand. Truly not his brightest moment, and he has a perfectly circular dotted scar as proof of his temporary idiocy.

Now, he makes sure to be extra careful. Marco holds the mold steady as he dips his fork in and tosses a string of sugar across and back again. He does this repeatedly, threading sugar lines across the plastic and molding the tips to be pointy so he does the fairies some justice. Once the mold is 70% covered, Marco lifts the now completely cooled, molded sugar and gently places it atop the first cupcake that’s been frosted by Eren and flower-piped by Armin. 

“I must admit, it is rather cute,” Armin offers, a lopsided grin topping off his crossed arms at his creation combined with the others’. “Would you care to tell us exactly _why_ we’re making fairy cupcakes, though?”

“It’s Spring!” 

When Marco says nothing further, Eren quirks an eyebrow and drags a hand down his face. “Spring? _That’s_ why you’re making me crank out one-hundred vanilla cupcakes right now?”

“Precisely.” Marco turns back to spin the next fairy sugar topping, and the topic is dropped, but not before Eren can whisper, “I’m gonna turn _you_ into a fairy and put _you_ on the cupcake.” Marco whacks him in the head with a wooden spoon, and rather than defending his boyfriend, Armin just shrugs and pretends like he saw nothing.

Time begins to pick up, and a few minutes before opening, Marco places the last sugar-spun fairy wings atop the last remaining sugar-less cupcake. Armin had put up the rest of the pots of coffee after his piping was complete, and everything was set to go. The money was in the register, the breads were back in their wire baskets on the wall, the fairy cupcakes lined the glass display cases, and Eren had changed yesterday’s sign on the board out front to _“Welcome Spring with Fairy Cupcakes today!”_

Marco turned up the radio a few notches, and as he was heading back to the kitchen to get started on a fresh batch of sfogliatelles, his attention is grabbed by the first person standing in line to wait for the doors to open. 

It’s Jean, as promised.

He sees that Marco found him and looks down at his shoes, but after some inner discussion he’s having with himself, he looks back up and gives Marco a lopsided smile and a small wave.

Marco beams and waves back, because not only is there a recognizable customer at the front of _his_ line for _his_ bakery, but it’s Jean. It’s his friend.

 _He came back._  

Marco takes the liberty of running back behind the counter to make Jean’s coffee before heading to the sfogliatelles, and once Eren releases the latch on the doors, Jean comes walking in, pea coat, scarf and all with his hands buried deep into his pockets. He doesn’t see Eren stick his tongue out at him, but Marco does, and he makes a mental note to scold him for it later. 

“Good morning, my good sir. The usual?” 

“I have a usual now? I’ve only been here twice.”

Marco shrugs, relaxing into his mode of that efficient quickness Jean labeled him as having last night, and sets to making Jean’s beverage. “I didn’t peg you for a liar, Jean.”

Jean pouts, squinting at Marco and trying to find any trace of a lie. “I’m not.”

“Last night was your _third_ visit. Or did you forget you told me you stopped by when I wasn’t here?” Marco raises his brows, in the clear for winning, and sets Jean’s coffee down on the counter. 

Scoffing and picking up his drink to take a tentative sip, Jean rolls his eyes and looks anywhere but at Marco. “Well...yanno…”

Marco laughs, and even though it’s not the first time Jean has heard it, it feels like it is, and his chest is filled with a radiant warmth. 

He’s about to pay, but the fairy cupcakes catch his eye, and he’s curious, even though he _is_ holding up the line. “What are those?”

“Oh,” Marco looks down at the glass display case, full of sugary concoctions and fairy delights. “Fairy cupcakes. I wanted to make them to celebrate Spring.”

“Hmm.” Jean stares at them, really stares, and his wallet is screaming but his voice is louder when he says, “I’ll take three.”

The lighthouse beaming comes again, and Jean swears he’s looking at the human embodiment of the sun for the second time in two days. He doesn’t mind, but oh, is it blinding.

It’s a good sort of burn. 

Marco smiles as he gets the cupcakes. Marco smiles as he puts them in a white box with the bakery logo stamped on the top flap. Marco smiles as he wraps it in red and white string to keep it closed, and he smiles wider still when he hands the box over. 

His first sale of the day is to his new friend that before seemed like a festering enemy. Who would’ve thought this was how it would turn out.

Jean pays and they talk for all of three seconds before the woman behind Jean is clearing her throat, telling him to non-verbally “get the fuck out of here already.” He rolls his eyes, looking to Marco, and, unintentionally, offers another lopsided smile. “I hope you, uhm. I hope you have a good day.” 

“Yeah. You too, Jean. Take care.”

They wave at each other when Jean is back on the sidewalk, and before he knows it, Jean boards the 1 train to Houston Street with fairy cupcakes.

 _Maybe it’ll soften the blow of “I told you so” from them,_ Jean thinks, and he prays that the treats from Sasha and Connie’s new favorite place distract them long enough to let Jean off the hook. 

Jean closes his eyes, letting the train rock him back and forth, back and forth, and taking periodic sips of his coffee that he now strictly associates with _his_ new favorite place.


	5. Ricotta Muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is lemon ricotta muffins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD I SWEAR
> 
> my sincerest apologies for taking so long to update!! finals were a nightmare, i've returned to work, and it was my 21st birthday so ofc i've been celebrating hardcore (and by hardcore i mean watching anime just now with a bottle of wine) but fINALLY, here’s chapter 5. thanks for stickin around!
> 
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“Told you so,” Sasha says around a mouthful of cupcake.

“You’re an idiot,” Connie says around a mouthful of cupcake.

“We told you you’re an idiot,” they say in unison around spun sugar wings and piped flowers.

Jean has been listening to Thing One and Thing Two chide him for upwards of an hour at this point. He’s had his cheek shmushed against the break room table, glasses haphazardly slanted on his face from contact with the cheap wood tabletop and cooled cup of coffee loose in his grip. He traces the printed flowers of a now-familiar logo; round and round his fingers go, idly memorizing the curves and corners of the circular bakery label. He’s only half listening to how they bounce conversation off each other, choosing to tune out Connie’s remarks of, “How dare that talented freckled ass make such good goddamn cupcakes. I wonder if he could bake at our wedding, we should ask him,” and Sasha’s muffled agreements. (The only thought Jean allows into his brain is the fact that they’re not even near engaged yet, but he lets it slip and leaves the two to think of a wedding barely considered.) Jean groans to himself and closes his eyes, doing his best to inhale and exhale in even rhythms.

Since Jean walked through the publishing house doors this morning, the universe has been collectively out to get him in the distinct ways that it finds the opportunities to. Connie and Sasha’s lectures are just the icing on the cake, so to speak.

The person working the front desk that so rudely greeted him this morning is apparently new, (Ymir, he read on her name tag, however _that’s_ pronounced), and had no previous knowledge of Jean’s employment at Penguin. They had him scan his employee ID (“Just put the thing to the thing and be on your way, _sir_.”), but of course the scanner broke upon attempted scanning. So the manager was called, (“Bertl can you _please_ stop sweating over the damn thing. It’s already broken, we don’t need you to make it worse. No it’s not _that_ plug!”), which left Jean standing at the large expanse of marble desk for twenty minutes, staring as a 6-foot-2 soaking wet man nervously fiddled with a scanner next to an employee below him on the company hierarchy of positions barking orders but not offering to actually help. It’s a good thing Jean doesn’t have to physically clock in at work upon arrival, because if he had to, it would show up on record that he was twenty minutes late.

The scanner issue was eventually fixed, and after the drenched manager apologized more profusely than the production of sweat on his brows, Jean scanned his ID probably for the first time in years, and was approved entry. He shot the new front desk-ee a glare, to which they responded by sticking out their tongue, and Jean resisted the very strong urge to roll his eyes.

The next incident in which the universe decided to have fun with their favorite editing man, the elevator had gotten stuck on the tenth floor. “Oh come _on_ ” had bounced off the metal walls of the elevator in result of Jean’s exasperation, and he was ready to kick the stupid doors in aggravation just as it began to move. “Thank you,” he had muttered, and refrained from looking at his watch to show his thirty-minute-late arrival to the editorial floor.

As if those incidents weren’t enough (are they ever?), the second he stepped off the elevator, someone else was coming _in_ and promptly spilled three-quarters of their hot cup of something (that proved to be tea) all over Jean’s shirt. His briefcase containing his manuscripts and laptop were gripped in one raised hand, miraculously avoiding contact with the floor, and his other open palm parallel in position, Jean tightened his lips in the hardest line he’s ever produced and just stared down at his soaked attire. Perfect outfit destroyed. It’s okay though, he told himself, it wasn’t as if he had picked it out the night before with pride. All is well.

It’s times like these that Jean remembers that working as an editor has brought about numerous benefits, but one of the best that Jean has had the pleasure of experiencing is becoming close companions with one Sasha Braus. Just by being near Sasha you learn a few things; she has rules for everything and every situation imaginable - rules for the work place, rules for the home, rules for social situations of plentiful kinds - and fortunately for Jean, he falls into nearly every category of her rules, being as close to her as he is.

On an unpleasant morning such as the one bestowed upon him today, Jean thanks all the stars in a space he doesn’t trust that his best friend is a lunatic.

Jean takes a moment to reign in the curse words he’d like to spew hanging off his tongue from the scalding tea clinging to his skin. Once he’s sure he’s relatively sane, he consoles the apologetic and frantic intern and briskly returns to the organized pride and joy that Jean calls his work desk. He gently places his briefcase on the desk top, holds on to the back of his chair, and exhales.

Sasha’s ridiculous (yet effective) guidelines have long since been branded into his memory, a side effect brought on by default from spending such an extended amount of time in her company. Mentally sifting through the never ending amounts of lists for every occasion on planet Earth, Jean remembers the ones that apply to work and begins the quest to find the one he needs.

Rule #1 of Sasha’s work-place rules: Keep a snack in every crevice of the area of which you mostly occupy. Jean has spent years with the same company, years wandering the ever-expansive halls of Penguin Publishing, and to this day, he’s always finding some granola bar or bag of chips or sleeve of cookies stashed in the most unorthodox of places at his desk. Sasha has openly declared that should Jean’s cubicle ever be snack-less, their friendship is to be terminated effective immediately. She has personally made it her mission to stuff sleeves of Oreos between folders in his filing cabinet, bags of chips in his pen drawer, and granola bars and trail mix in the back corners of his shelves only to be found when the time came for them to fulfill their purpose. Looking at his soaked outfit, Jean pushes aside the first rule, unnecessary for the moment, but never forgotten.

Rule #2: Medicate (if applicable). Take breaks. Pop an Advil or seven and walk around the office to stretch them legs. “Sitting in the same spot for too long makes ya loopy,” or something like that.

Rule #3: “Treat yo self.” Buy an expensive lunch once a week. Take your lunch to Central Park and walk around if it’s nice out. Eat that cookie or piece of cake. Work is tough as it is, why not make the day a little brighter with something you probably can’t afford? (This originally was Connie’s rule, but Sasha crossed it off his list and adapted it to her own. Connie doesn’t have lists anymore.)

Rule #4: Always have an extra outfit or spare clothing stashed at work somewhere and a Tide stick or three; you never know when you’ll need it. Jean takes heed to this rule the most, constantly spilling coffee on his pants and getting all sorts of stains on his clothing during time spent in the office. It’s mostly from trying to retain coherency in any form he can muster with the caffeinated resources within reach on his floor when exhaustion is at its peak. Because of these instances, the bottom drawer of his desk on the left side has two shirts, a pair of pants, two pairs of socks, three ties, and two Tide sticks. You never do know.

There are several more rules to this list, but as Jean approaches rule number four, he stops, remembering what he needs. True to it, he changes into one of the shirts in his drawer. Surprisingly, the universe has decided to cut him a break, because the shirt from his desk better suits his outfit - black and white checkered button down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows to match pink jeans with the cuffs rolled up at the bottom and black oxfords to complete. The button down looks much better than the plain white one he had on pre-coffee spill, and Jean pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in satisfaction at his unintentional wardrobe change.

Such was Jean’s morning after stopping by The Flour Patch, and now, as Jean sweeps the crumbs Sasha and Connie have littered the table with from their cupcakes into the palm of his hand, he wonders if today would’ve been a good day to work from home.

He dumps the crumbs into the wastebin and turns to leave the break room when Connie calls out, “Where ya goin? Didn’t you buy yourself a cupcake?”

Jean shrugs and comments over his shoulder that he’ll save it for later and heads back to his desk, wondering if that cupcake will be there by the time he returns to the break room later on for lunch.

 

* * *

 

“You said we had another week. No you _didn’t_ say we’re _short_ a week, you fucking said we had _another_ week. Check the damn schedule if you don’t believe me! Oh no no, don’t go putting my words in my mouth you ungrateful son of a b --” Jean’s phone line cut out, the dial tone his only confirmation that his call with the printers has ended, and Jean all but slams his cordless back in its holder.

Three o’clock has rolled around, and Jean is up to his neck in paperwork; he’s got two manuscripts that need to be looked at loosely for publication consideration, one that needs to be fully proofed and one that, apparently, needed to be proofed, covered, and sent to the printers a week ago. Jean’s desk is artfully decorated in rings upon rings of coffee stains from the day’s high caffeine intake, his leg won’t stop bouncing, and now he’s missing one of the pages from the overdue manuscript, even though he swears it was there only a second ago.

Jean stops his frantic shuffling and panicked panting in favor of sitting back and doing breathing exercises like he was taught to do in stressful situations he has no control over. He falls back into his chair with a huff and stops to have a moment of solidarity. A look around the office and Jean sees that, much like himself, everyone else is in various stages of disarray. Phones are ringing off the hook, editors and publicists alike are yelling and negotiating printing dates and copy amounts. Paper shuffles like a chorus playing throughout the floor, filing cabinets slamming in tandem, and Jean thinks it’s a sick joke that such stressful hussle could be compared to an office symphony. Strangely enough, though, he rather enjoys it. His career comes with handling literature and an added bonus of chaoticism and high blood pressure - a perfect combination.

Jean’s gaze travels from a far corner of the floor to directly down his aisle where he sees Thomas The Intern. He was hired about two weeks ago, and Jean remembers hearing that he tripped on his own feet the entire interview. He’s attempting to carry an enormous stack of copies, most likely author contracts, but he trips and drops all the pages, unstapled and littering the hallway. Mina The Intern is on coffee runs, and the universe barks out harsh laughter as she barely sets down four trays of Starbucks on a nearby desk corner. Unfortunately for her, the top two cartons topple, sending six cups of coffee and two frappucinos right on top of the papered floor courtesy of her coworker. Six people are now without Starbucks and the author contracts the liquid is soaking through are now ruined.

 _This can’t get much worse_ , Jean groans to himself, but of course, he assumes much too quickly.

Before Jean can be thankful that nothing else could possibly add to the catastrophic melting pot that is the editing department, Levi steps out of his office.

Jean blanches and unconsciously begins to shrink in his seat.

Levi never leaving his office is a good thing.

Levi actually stepping foot outside of his door other than in the morning and to leave at night, however, is most certainly _not_ a good thing.

Jean sees his life flash before his eyes. He was such a good kid, he knows he doesn’t deserve this.

If you’ve ever been to a baseball game, you know that the announcer in charge of entertaining the stands of thousands of people does silly things to keep the guests occupied during the short intermissions between innings. Songs will play that you get to sing along to, the “kiss cam” comes on the huge screen and couples kiss if it lands on them, that sort of thing. It’s a fun time.

Baseball entertainment announcers are also really fond of something you might’ve heard of called The Wave. One end of the stadium lifts their hands up, and as they lower their arms, the people next to them lower theirs, and so continues this wave that people create just by extending and retracting their limbs. It carries out through the crowd and continues until people fall out of rhythm and the wave dies.

As Jean slides down his chair so low that his chin hits his desk, Jean pictures The Wave right in his office, only not with arms, but with the faces of his coworkers about to stare down Death himself.

He can _hear_ it; as soon as Levi’s crisp heels click against the floor, the semi-circle of people around him go immediately still. They stop talking on the phone, they stop yelling at the printers and Thomas and Mina The Interns and cease all movement except for the turn of their heads to confirm the worst is truly upon them. Once the first bout of editors quiets down, the second wave looks to see why they’re so quiet and repeat the action, as does the third and fourth until the entire editorial department is staring at the five-foot-three nightmare everyone wants to run from but knows they can’t: their boss.

This is not a baseball game and this is not fun. It’s certain death. Jean knows better than to connect fun, happy games at an athletic event with the happenings in his office concerning the Grim Reaper dressed in an Armani suit. He might as well sign his own death certificate.

Jean stops his thought rambling and quiets his breathing, and as he strains his ears to listen to what it is Levi is about to say, he hears another coffee cup falling. It adds another splash to the papers and coffee Thomas and Mina already dropped a minute ago. The minute feels like an eternity, and as coffee soaks into the carpet and metaphorical crickets can be heard, it feels like an eternity will pass before the silence will be broken.

People directly in front of Levi gasp, and Jean just _knows_ that that splash of coffee also splashed on Levi’s matching Armani dress shoes that probably cost more than his soul.

Levi clears his throat.

The entire floor is saying their silent goodbyes to the world and all their loved ones.

“What is going on?”

No one has an answer.

No one _dares_ to answer, rather.

Everyone is terrified and no one has the balls to explain that the interns are klutzy and the staff at the printer locations suck and the universe hates Penguin Publishing and all of its employees today.

Except Thomas, apparently. Poor, innocent Intern Thomas who doesn’t know the Wrath of Levi, the tiny but dangerous Editor in Chief.

Thomas stands up, slips on one of the contract papers he so ineptly dropped all over the floor, regains his footing, and stands in front of Levi, miles taller than him but frail in comparison to Levi’s short but muscular build.

“Well you see Levi, I -”

“Stop.”

Five words out of his mouth and Thomas The Intern doesn’t have a chance to recover. The entire office pulses with anxiety at Thomas not appropriately addressing his superior, and Jean wishes he wasn’t seriously thinking of sneaking a piece of paper from the floor to hastily write out his last will and testament.

Silence. For three whole minutes, there is complete and utter silence. Fax machines idly beep and dial tones could be heard from the ended calls editors have been on all morning. Other than office supplies doing what they’re supposed to do ( _Unlike the interns_ , Jean silently comments), there is no human sound to be heard, not even the sound of people breathing.

“Jean Kirschtein.” _This is it, this is the end for me. Take care of my books, Connie. Let them know they were loved._ “Care to fill me in on the office parade our interns are throwing with paper and what appears to be... fourteen cups of coffee?”

Jean closes his eyes and says his last farewell before sitting up in his chair and standing to face his boss. He clears his throat, stares down Thomas and Mina for .2 seconds in a silent _fuck you guys_ , and turns to Levi with a much calmer expression. “I believe Thomas tripped and Mina’s balance was unsteady, sir.”

“I see.” The Editor in Chief walks around Thomas, past Mina, down the aisle, and stops next to Jean, still facing ahead. “Thank you,” is all he says before he continues forward to the middle of the room.

All eyes of the editorial staff follow Levi’s easy stride, not daring to look away for fear that if they do, it’ll be like some sort of personal curse they’d cast upon themselves. He stands proud, sure, solid and without doubt. He’s feared, but he is more so extremely admired, by people of equal standing with a title such as his, employees who work for him, and employees he works for.

Jean never quite figured out what exactly was so intimidating about Levi other than his rumored high-ranking military status; he’s always honest when asked a question (sometimes brutally so), his wisdom is unmatched in his field, and he’s a very intelligent, very whole-hearted person. It’s unanimously known that Levi’s passion for editing and literature are matched only by few and that he’s very dedicated in all aspects. Jean just supposes that because Levi doesn’t jump up and down with glee when he’s assigned a new project like a little girl would at the thought of getting a pony, everyone believes that he doesn’t feel joy. His chronic bitch face doesn’t do much to help his case, either.

But Jean knows he’s not heartless - he’s quite the opposite, much to his coworkers’ adamant refusal and insistence that Levi is incapable of feeling. Jean’s seen him spending extra time with an author when they’re having doubts and going into blind panic over whether or not their book will reach the readers like they hope it will. He’s seen Levi drape a blanket or two over people who spend the night at their desk and don’t go home because of too much work to be done and not enough time to do it. He even remembers Levi smiling once, just once, on a day where Jean happened to be in the same corner restaurant for lunch. Levi was sitting with the Chief Creative Officer, Mr. Erwin Smith, and something he said made Levi crack a smile so small Jean was quite positive he was delusional.

Whatever Levi’s story may be, Jean knows he is a good man and holds him in high respects, although he does wonder if he’ll ever have the chance to work with him. He thinks he’d like to, even if he is a little scary.

Jean mentally returns back to the day at hand, watching Levi turn in a slow circle around the middle of the room in act of addressing each individual employee. “I know the day has been absolutely shitty and I know those idiots at the printers are giving you more grief than necessary. It’s been discovered that a small error in the timetables for printing dates and printing amounts has caused all the commotion, I apologize. We’ll be fixing this immediately and getting in touch with each printer location with the updated amounts and dates. For now, please assure the authors you’re assigned to that everything is to proceed as previously scheduled, and work knowing that you still have the week you thought you lost for deadlines and proposals.”

Levi turns on his heel and heads back toward his office. He stops in front of Thomas, looks at him, and looks at Mina. “I suggest you both clean up your messes and make sure that by the time I leave my office again I see not a single trace of coffee or ink staining the floor.”

“Yes, sir!” They say together, and Levi retreats back into his cave. Jean doesn’t know if it’s the click of the door that muffles it, but he’s pretty sure he hears Levi whipping out his rag to clean off his coffee-stained shoes.

The entire floor heaves the breath they were holding in throughout the exchange and collectively release a weight on their shoulders that Levi unknowingly places upon them. Jean thanks the heavens for sparing his life for another day and returns to his desk.

Placing his glasses onto the trackpad of his laptop, Jean leans his elbows on the tabletop and rubs his temples. When he looks up, he sees the page he thought he was missing peeking out from behind his laptop screen. He huffs a laugh thats more a puff of air from his nose and puts his glasses back on to start proofing.

 

* * *

 

_“They drift out to sea, leaving behind the shore and letting their hearts bob in time with the waves. They realize, amidst tasting the salt on their tongues and listening to sea foam slapping at the wood in ephemeral greeting, that there is no such thing as easy contentment, no such thing as a permanent state of anything. The world moves, the heart beats, the mind wanders. Nothing is ever still, nor will it ever reach such a state of perpetual placidity. Time continues its unforgiving journey forward in leaps and brief hiccoughs. Each trajectory of people’s lives we’ve unintentionally entangled ourselves in adds to the threaded web of our existence. Things change and things remain the same; there is no stopping or freezing._

_As they move with the swell of the tide, no particular direction or destination in mind, they twine their fingers with the knots of the ocean and sell their souls to its depths. They bid farewell to their cemented pasts, say hello to their futures, and walk forward with floating steps._

_They do not wish for permanence. Rather, they wish to be lost, (for being lost is a way of being set free.)”_

 

* * *

 

After what feels like years of corrections, but was only three hours, Jean finally throws his pen down in exasperation and finality - the manuscript is done. He’s proofed it, he’s fixed all the grammatical errors, sentence fragments, and pointed out every instance of written confusion he could find. His head hurts and he’s so tired he’s seeing double, but his stomach rumbles, and Jean remembers he hasn’t eaten anything pretty much all day. He pulls his body out of his desk chair and heads to the break room in search of the treat he saved earlier.

Jean is doing his best to stifle a yawn as he opens the narrow refrigerator and is not all that surprised to see a small sticky note that reads “sorry! :P” in the exact spot his cupcake had been in that morning. It’s unmistakably written in Connie’s hurried and jagged handwriting, and Jean hangs his head in defeat.

Connie, one floor above his best friend, feels a buzz in his pants pocket. He’s in the middle of a meeting with Sasha, helping her pitch the grotesque book cover he’s designed for Jean’s last editing project. Sasha’s discussing the rate of sales for this particular author in the different stores they’re selling in, and Connie chances a peek at his text messages while everyone is distracted by diagrams and charts.

It’s from Jean, and the only text he sent was, _“I’m watching you, Wazowski. Always watching. Aaaallwaaayysss.”_

Connie snickers to himself and pats his tummy full of Jean’s fairy cupcake.

 

* * *

 

“I really am sorry.”

“No you’re not. You enjoyed my cupcake, admit it.”

“Okay that’s true, but I’m still sorry.”

Jean squints at his cupcake-stealing best friend and mutters, “Well, isn't that nice? But guess what? You didn't turn in your paperwork last night.”

Connie rolls his eyes and groans, dramatically throwing his head back. “Will you _stop_ quoting Monsters Inc. already, _Roz_?”

“Only when you _stop stealing my cupcakes._ ” Jean crosses his arms and pouts, like the five-year-old child that he is.

Sasha gives each of them a stern look and a warning tone. "Settle down, children."

“I can’t make any promises, Jeany boy.” Connie crosses his arms and shrugs. “I am much too tempted by sugary things. It’s like I have this supersonic impulse to just _eat_.”

Jean scoffs, twirling his spaghetti around his fork. “Alright, _Sasha_.”

“Hey hey, it wasn’t me who ate your cupcake, don’t drag me into this.”

Upon previously discovering his cupcake was no more, Jean had packed up his belongings and decided to wait for Connie and Sasha’s meeting to be over. He’d made himself at home at Sasha’s desk for a little over an hour, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy seeing her face light up at the sight of him sitting in her chair. She’d bounded over and all but threw herself into his lap with a hug and a million questions in tow. “What are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you dying from punctuation overload with this author, or what?” Jean simply told her, if they were both free, that he’d just like to grab some food with them if they wanted to. Sasha has never been one to turn down an offer of a good meal and readily agreed, dragging her boyfriend and her best friend out and away from Penguin for the night.

They wound up picking a small Italian place a block away from the office. It wasn’t too crowded, the lights were dim but bright enough to navigate through the restaurant, and the food was tasty. It was a nice way to unwind from a hectic day, especially when a glass of wine and good company are involved.

They chatter around mouthfuls of spaghetti, chicken parmesan, and bulbous glasses generously filled. Sasha tells Jean about their plans to renovate the apartment, and every time she talks about drape colors and the types of new furniture she wants to get, Connie nods along and yes, dear's her to death. Jean laughs at their mutual enthusiasm and personalities that, when put together, always remind him of the handheld fire sparklers people light during warm summer nights. Jean likes being in their company; he doesn’t have to talk too much because they do most of the talking, and he’d rather listen than speak a lot of the time, anyway. Mostly, the immense enjoyment that comes with sitting back and just watching them interact and bounce off each other is enough for Jean to relax. They’re interesting together. They’re bright and energetic, with a magnetism that promises laughter and high spirits only they could possess.

As Sasha moves through apartment discussion, she begins to whine at Connie about getting new glassware with hand-painted designs that she saw in an antique shop on 5th avenue. Jean eats his pasta in silence and watches the glass of wine in Sasha’s hand. Round and round the elliptical red goes, creating a tornado spiral as her hand whirls the liquid. His mind drifts back to the passage of manuscript that he was editing earlier on, about getting lost at sea and heart beats and the tangles of the ocean.

Jean continues to stare at the swirling wine and is reminded of red velvet.

“Oh, dude!” Connie slices through Jean’s reverie with a thump of his hand on the tabletop, shaking the basket of breadsticks and sending ripples through their glasses. “I heard Grim Reaper came out of his office today! I am so sorry yo, how are you even alive right now?”

Jean puts his fork down and shakes his head. “He only emerged because the two newest interns dropped all the author contract copies and spilled fourteen cups of coffee on them at his doorstep.”

Sasha looks to Connie, a solemn frown on her face as if she lost a loved one during the incident. “That must’ve been rough. I wonder how many editors died today. May they all rest in peace.”

“He called out my entire name and I thought it was really going to be the end for me.”

“He did _what_?”

“Yep.” Jean straightens his shirt and fiddles with his glasses, trying to channel Levi’s stoic expression. He says, in the best Levi impersonation he can muster, “‘Jean Kirschtein, care to fill me in on this _parade_?”

The two start cackling, Connie almost knocking over his plate onto the floor and Sasha snorting into Connie’s sleeve as she flings a spoon across the table. Jean chuckles along with them, readjusting his glasses and twirling another fork of pasta.

“Damn, what a day,” Connie all but wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m so glad Mr. Smith is a rad fellow. You should come to graphic, less chance of certain death.”

Sasha speaks through leftover giggles. “Yeah, he’s such a giant teddy bear. Makes you wanna squeeze him ‘til his stuffing comes out.”

Connie gives a suggestive eyebrow wiggle and Sasha snorts at her own joke. Jean shakes his head and slurps spaghetti, licking the corner of his lip for stray tomato sauce.

 

* * *

 

After office gossip and a tiramisu to share amongst themselves, Jean, Connie and Sasha part ways for the evening with the semi-unfortunate reassurance that they’d see each other in the morning (or, as Connie had put it, “Get out of my face, I’m done seeing you for today because I have to see you at the asscrack o’ dawn tomorrow. Can’t catch a break.”) Jean rolls his eyes and waves over his shoulder as he heads for the subway, laughing to himself as he hears Sasha yelling.

Down the grimy subway staircase Jean goes, all the while untangling the wild knot his earbuds had become in his pocket during the day. He pauses at the bottom of the staircase to plug the cord into his phone and shuffles his songs before swiping his metrocard to gain access to the platform.

The train doesn’t take long to arrive, and as Jean steps on and finds an empty seat, he taps his foot to Frank Sinatra’s beat and jolts as the car begins to move forward.

 _Someday, when I’m awfully low,_   
_when the world is cold…_

Jean feels the vibration of the subway car, follows its inertia with every turn and stares out the scratched windows to watch tunnel walls fly past. His foot bops idly along with the music, and before he realizes it, Jean is smiling to himself.

When you spend years taking the same subway at around the same time on the same days, you memorize the stops and distances between each of them, whether you mean to or not. Jean has worked at Penguin for years, taking the same routes to and from work to the point of being able to be on complete autopilot. He knows exactly when to stand up to reach the doors before other people can beat him to it, he knows how long he has until his stop arrives, and he knows the route down to a T.

So it’s surprising when, as Jean hums along the next couple of bars, he steps off the train and jogs up the steps only to be on 23rd street and not on 34th where he needs to be to get home.

 _...I will feel a glow_  
_Just thinking of you  
_ _And the way you look tonight._

He didn’t mean to miscalculate his stop, or to lose himself past the point of autopilot and straight into blindness. Jean didn’t even mean to walk up to the doors of The Flour Patch, but well, here he stands. In front of the bakery. Again, like moth to flame.

Jean’s starting to believe that since he’s been to the bakery so frequently in such a short time frame he’s going to be labeled a stalker, if he hasn’t been already.

He tells himself to turn around. He commands his body to hightail it back down those subway stairs and on his train to Penn Station so he can go home. It was a long day full of angry editors and confused printers and miscommunications and Jean needs to be asleep as soon as humanly possible.

Jean is about to do just that when the blonde mushroom comes popping out of the front doors and right up to him.

“Hey! Jean, right? I’m glad I caught you. Why don’t you come in, we’ve made something new while you were gone today.”

Mushroom has called him out on his stalking, and for the second time within a span of 12 hours, Jean is ready for euthanasia.

Man, the universe hates him today.

Jean takes out his earbuds and offers a small nod of his head as he follows Armin into the bakery, left with no choice but to suck it up and go in.

Spring may have finally sprung upon Manhattan, but the bakery was so much warmer. It’s not a stifling hot or a humid mugginess, but a warmth that finds the cricks of your bones and the cracks in your heart and worms through to heal and to comfort. It’s a warm that’s inviting, safe and exciting with the sweets it contains, and for a split second, Jean isn’t worried about Marco calling him a creep or worried about being clingy; he’s happy to be there, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be anything but.

He walks inside and it’s as if he didn’t leave in the first place.

Whistling is coming from the kitchen and there’s something of an aftershock of excitement buzzing through the bakery. Jean looks around to see several people eating the last of Marco’s fairy cupcakes, and he assumes they did well throughout the day.

Armin leaves Jean’s side, jogging into the back, and as soon as he reaches the source of the whistling it stops. A mop of shaggy brown hair follows the mushroom, and Jean does his best to resist the feeling of wanting to step backwards at the sight of The Flour Patch’s guard dog.

“Oh, you’re back,” is the only greeting Eren has to offer Jean. Armin smacks him in the arm and Eren clears his throat. “Sorry _sir_ , what can I get you?”

“Uhm.” Jean’s hands start to sweat as he grips onto his phone wrapped in his earbuds. His heart’s starting to race a little faster with both of them expecting some type of order but he doesn’t know if he even wants anything and this was stupid it was so stupid he should’ve stayed on the damn train, damnit -

“Where’d you guys go? We still have the last batch of muffins to -” Marco emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the rag wedged into his waistband and flour smearing his cheeks and across his nose. Jean ignores the fact that it makes his freckles stand out a little more in comparison to the stark white. He also ignores the fact that his heart beat speeds up again.

(He stamps out the embers before they can grow into flames.)

“Jean! It’s good to see you back so soon. Oh wait here, I have to get you today’s special! I think you’re gonna like it, hold on just one sec.”

The freckly baker darts back into the kitchen again, and out of the corner of his eye, Jean can see Eren and Armin smiling after him, with Armin’s hands behind his back as he rocks to and fro, and Eren grinning, as if let in on a secret.

(Oh, but you can’t stop the embers once they’ve already been ignited.)

_(Obstrigillate: to oppose/resist)_

Marco emerges from the kitchen and the first thought that pops into Jean’s head is that he looks like the _epitome_ of a poster-boy for bakers.

Covering Marco’s hands are oven mitts that look like sock puppets; they’re worn and felted, gray in color with googly eyes that look to have been glued on more than once, and a felt mouth bearing harmless white fangs. The mitts compliment Marco’s apron, the regular bakery-logoed work apparel but with a button attached that says, _“Ask me about what I bake!”_ A typical Marco Bodt outfit.

What Jean is more interested in, after he’s stopped chuckling at Marco’s homey wardrobe, is the tray of muffins fresh out of the oven that he’s holding in his sock puppet hands.

“Don’t you dare laugh about my oven mitts. I’ve already been bullied enough by _these_ two for one day.”

“We did _not_ bully you!” Eren protests. Armin huffs in agreement, to which Marco merely rolls his eyes and carries the tray back into the kitchen.

Armin giggles and turns back to Jean, who is equal points amused and intrigued. “He ordered those mitts off of Amazon. Apparently, they have an amazing baking section and he just ‘couldn’t resist.’”

Eren settles into the wooden stool behind the counter, propping his chin in his hand and leaning against the countertop. “I can’t decide what’s worse: the mitts or his Pi Day outfit.”

“Hey!” Marco rounds the corner, expertly carrying four steaming muffins and sets down a muffin in front of both of his employees. “My Pi Day outfit is not to be slandered, young ones. You have yet to learn about high-end fashion.”

Armin begins to unwrap the paper mold around his muffin and bites into the top, pointing with his free hand as he says around a mouthful of crumbs, “I think the only one who knows anything about fashion here is Jean.”

Jean blinks once, twice, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and fiddles with his fingers. Being put on the spot by your boss is one thing, because it is to be expected eventually. Being put on the spot by people you barely know in a bakery you’re becoming rapidly fond of is something he doesn’t know how to handle.

Luckily, Eren handles it for him.

“Hmm. I don’t know about the pink pants, but overall it works.”

“Well, I happen to think he looks _great_ ,” Marco beams with his heart-stopping smile and sunshine beams.

Jean feels a bit odd, not because his outfit suddenly became the topic of interest in their conversation, but because he doesn’t mind; he isn’t wildly uncomfortable, and that’s what shocks him more than anything.

Social situations have always been a bit difficult for Jean because friends aren’t really something he came by often, if at all. Books were his friends. Books kept him company, cheered him up when he was sad, gave him something to look forward too, were the only thing he needed to feel safe and fulfilled. Connie and Sasha came much later, and although he feels entirely at ease around them and is assured he can be himself, he still has bouts of anxiety on how to deal with being a friend to someone else. He’s always second guessing his actions and his thoughts, worrying that maybe he’s not talking enough or talking too much. Jean never knows what level the friendship has to get to before he can stop being so terrified that he’ll mess it up. He often wonders if maybe, one day, he’ll be comfortable with someone to the point of complete, unguarded communication. There won’t be any hint of doubt, will be no room for confusion or hesitation or insecurity. That is a friendship Jean’s has wanted more than anything, and for the most part, he found that in Connie and Sasha.

In the bakery, surrounded by this indescribable positive glow and good intentions, Jean doesn’t feel any discomfort or uncertainty. He knows it will take much more, but there’s something about this place, about Marco and Eren and Armin that makes him believe they can be trusted, that they are good people.

So he smiles and he adjusts his glasses and says in a small but sure voice, “I happen to think I look very good myself, thank you.”

Armin chokes on his muffin from laughing, Eren is wide-eyed at his response, and Marco is shaking his head, eyebrows raised in a silent “Oh really?”

Once Armin has recovered and the metaphorical ice has been broken, Marco jumps. “I completely forgot! We made lemon ricotta muffins today, but the name is too long so we just called them ricotta muffins. Would you like to try one Jean?”

Marco holds out the muffin for taking, and Jean looks from Marco, to the muffin, to the counter duo, back to Marco. “Yeah, I would. If...that’s okay.”

“Of course it is! Here,” Marco furthers his reach in Jean’s direction, and Jean takes it in both hands from him. The residual heat seeps through the paper mold and settles into Jean’s hands, fresh out of the oven and ready for tasting. He smells hints of vanilla and lemon, but toasted almond slices dusted with sugar crystals are the added bonus that garnish the small cake. The edges of the muffin top are a perfect golden, and after Jean removes the paper and gingerly pulls the muffin apart, he sees the inside is fluffy and begging to be eaten. Steam rises from the center and clouds his glasses, and when he looks up, Marco sees them and starts laughing.

“Let me help.” Marco takes Jean’s glasses right off his face, wipes them with the clean corner of his apron, and puts them back in place. “Much better.”

Jean feels his face heat up, and he hopes his frames don’t fog up for any reason other than muffin steam.

He says thank you by diving into his muffin, and sweet mother of Mary is it heavenly.

Jean doesn’t even know what words would describe this angel muffin. It’s a combination of life-changing, earth-shattering, and damn delicious. The light, spongy consistency compliments the sugar crystals that melt on his tongue, and the bit of crunch from the toasted almonds ties it all together.

If religious experiences could happen via pastries, Jean is sure this would be one for the books.

He hears Marco chuckling and Jean doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until he has to open them. Eren is smirking again, as if watching someone experience one of Marco’s newest creations for the first time is just as satisfying as eating one himself. Armin’s picking apart his muffin and eating it slowly, trying not to be obvious in enjoying Jean’s not-so-private pastry explosion, and Marco has abandoned subtly in favor of openly enjoying watching Jean eat something he crafted by hand.

Marco leans forward with an excited smile as he knowingly asks, “Good, isn’t it?” He’s got stars in his eyes like he’s just found the moon and claimed it his. Maybe he has.

Jean can do nothing but smile along and nod his head. “Best muffin I’ve ever had.”

 

* * *

 

Unintentionally, Jean stays until closing. People file out one by one as the last hour goes by, and before he knows it, he’s alone with the baker and his friend. They chat amiably and Jean finds himself laughing along with Eren’s jokes, Marco’s reactions to them, and Armin’s gentle rebuking lined with amusement. They break apart their gathering to start cleaning up for the night, and Jean finds himself helping out; Eren offers him some latex gloves and he wordlessly picks up stray napkins and empty cups from tables and the window bar to toss into the trash. Jean finishes his minor task and notices that in the time it took to sweep up some garbage, the other three have completed their cleaning duties for the evening. He realizes that they’ve really become an efficient team who work together over the months of established business, and a strange sense of awe and pride bring about a smile.

It’s much easier than it should be, to sit in a circle of plush chairs and scarfing down the leftover muffins from the day with large glasses of milk. Marco had invited Jean to sit with them in the break room, but Jean, not feeling close enough to him to impose, declined his offer. So what does Marco do but bring the remaining trays of lemon ricotta muffins to the biggest table in the cafe. He makes frequent trips from the kitchen to the front, carrying handfuls of napkins and glasses of milk to enjoy with the still-warm treats, even though they just finished cleaning up. Jean doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t mind; he’d rather listen, content on watching them interact and seeing just how strong of a bond they have.

Jean doesn’t know them well, but after sitting with them for well over an hour after closing hours with the lights dim and an increasingly stretching smile across his cheeks, he thinks he’s beginning to.

Eren is the one that surprises him the most. Jean’s first impression of him was nearing “delinquent-turned-tame-guard dog,” but he’s happy to say that he was wrong about him. Eren is undeniably protective; even when assisting patients in the most polite and gentle manner, Jean can see in the tense muscles of his back and the strength in his arms that he cares about the bakery as much as its owner. He is calm and compassionate in dealing with impatient, rude, or brash customers, but he stands taller, grounds himself so he remains levelheaded. It’s not hard for Jean to picture Eren’s hackles rising as he assumes his defensive stance, For some reason, it makes him feel safer knowing that he is the bakery’s unofficial yet assumed defender.

While he is defensive, Eren is also extremely bright. During their conversation, Jean picks up on three Robert Browning references, one Edwin Arlington Robinson reference, about four Shakespeare jokes and two jabs at Charles Dickens (that Jean readily agreed with). Eren brought about a bit of a debate with Armin over psychological theories and the reactions of the masses until Marco groaned in boredom for them to stop and find something everyone could talk about. Jean finds himself chuckling and feeling exponentially eager to learn about Eren’s favorite books, poets, and literary passions, especially now that he knows they have mutual interests.

As wonderfully and endearingly eccentric as Eren is, Armin compliments him beautifully. Jean learns a lot about Armin in contrast to Eren but, more importantly, independently. Eren is wild hand gestures and whimsical booming speech and wide smiles, but Armin is subtle calculations and gentle laughs and reserved excitement. He is extraordinary with customers - professional, ready to assist, and acquires a sense of calm in an otherwise bustling bakery. Jean knows that Armin is strong more in speech than in physicality, but he knows very well that speech can be just as powerful as brute strength, if not more so, and Jean admires him for that. Armin is very mindful of everyone he personally encounters, and he uses his words to his advantage. It’s a potent skill to possess, and Jean silently praises him for mastering it.

Marco is incomparable. He cannot be put next to Armin or Eren, or even both simultaneously, for he just cannot compare. Qualities that Jean finds in the guard dog-mushroom duo he also finds in Marco, and therefore, measuring him next to them is futile. Marco is similar to Eren in that he attains near childlike wonder when he discusses things he loves, in that he’s easily excitable and visibly deep in thought whenever the time comes for pondering. Armin’s soft spirit and natural way with people shine in Marco as well, along with Armin’s tendency for sarcasm and wit. What Marco has that blooms solely within him is his charm, his extensive and infectious compassion, and a personal sense of fearlessness. He is not afraid of confronting what he doesn’t know, is not afraid of an open mind and an open heart. It’s bravery in and of itself, because when Jean thinks about the people he’s known, grew up around and worked with, qualities like this are found in very few.

Jean imagines a venn diagram, all three of their personal circles overlapping with Marco landing right in the middle where they meet, but leaves room for individual uniqueness.

Jean doesn’t think he fits anywhere on their spectrum, but he also reasons that it can’t hurt to try.

He’s nervous, immensely so, but it’s concurrently exciting.

_(Sparsile: of a star not included in any constellation)_

They stay situated around their table until Armin yawns and Eren recognizes the signs that it's time to go home from his boyfriend.

Eren stretches, making a show of rubbing his eyes and groaning loudly. Marco rolls his eyes, thinking it unnecessary when he can just say he wants to call it a night instead of being dramatic. He stands up and starts gathering the numerous ripped paper moldings from the muffins they devoured.

Jean looks at his watch and sees it’s already nearing 10:15pm. He didn’t mean to stay as late as he has, but it’s a nice feeling when time escapes you; that doesn’t happen often with him, considering all he does is check the time and await departure for most things. Jean has experienced another first, this one, he decides, just as welcome as the last.

Exhilarating is not the word Jean would use. If he could pick one, for the moment, he’d choose uplifting.

(Addicting would be a close second.)

As he had before, Jean assists in the cleanup, this time more thoroughly, considering he was apart of the eating and destroying of muffins crafted by angels. He still doesn’t feel comfortable enough entering the kitchen, as he knows it is a home to Marco as literature is to him. He knows it seems a little silly, but Jean considers that to be “sacred ground,” so to speak; it is Marco’s most highly regarded space, and Jean respectfully doesn’t wish to infringe upon it.

Eren hands Jean a rag and a spray bottle of cleaning fluid, and he cleans the table as the baking trio wipe and shut down the kitchen for the night. He hears Marco telling Armin and Eren they can come in a little later in the morning as an apology for keeping them so late. Jean laughs, listening to the beginnings of Eren’s protest die on his tongue as Armin gratefully accepts the offer and promises to be in no later than a half hour after opening.

The table is clean - Jean’s only scrubbed it down about eighty-thousand times by now because it gives his hands something to do - and again, Jean hears an orchestra of noises today. The ovens hiss as they cool down, their doors slamming shut after cleaning. Clinking utensils are put away in drawers and cabinets. The rush of the sink splutters as tools are washed and ready to dry. Wire baskets rattle in their slots as they’re replaced with new ones for tomorrow, ready to hold bagels and breads at Marco’s command. Even after-hours there is music to be made within the bakery, exclusively _made_ by the bakery, and Jean smiles at the thought of it having life - always creating, always fulfilling.

The bustle of the back room clean-up dies down after about ten minutes, and Jean hears the back door squeaking open. Goodbyes and hugs goodnight are exchanged, and wishes of arriving home safely are given to Eren and Armin. They go quiet for a few minutes, muffled speech Jean can’t make out, but he tunes it out for the sake of privacy. Eren pops his head in the kitchen doorway and yells goodnight as Armin yawns out the same. Jean gives a small wave and a smile, and the two disappear out the back.

Marco reemerges, sighing and wiping his hands on his apron. Jean fidgets, playing with the edge of the worn rag in his hands and the handle on the spray bottle.

“Oh sorry, did Eren give you that? You didn’t have to clean anything.” Marco holds his hands out for the supplies and Jean gives them to him. Their hands are separated by the damp rag and Jean tells himself he doesn’t notice.

“You shared your muffins, it was the least I could do.”

Marco smiles and shrugs. “I hate throwing out pastry at the end of the day. Eren usually takes them home with him for the two of them to share, so I never have to worry about wasting.”

Jean snorts, crossing his arms and biting his lip to hide a grin. “I’m amazed he’s not three hundred pounds.”

Marco chuckles and walks back around the counter to stow away the bottle and rag in some place underneath the register. In his pocket, Jean’s phone vibrates with an incoming text and chooses to ignore it.

“I’m, uhm,” Jean starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. _‘I’m sorry for always being in your way and for always showing up and being really creepy’_ doesn’t seem like the best thing to say to someone you’ve just recently befriended, so he stops. Marco hums, a soft encouragement to continue, and Jean clears his throat to start again, nervously wringing his hands and picking at his nails. “Thanks for having me. Again. I’m sorry I keep coming, I don’t usually make such frequent trips and I -”

“Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re always welcome here.”

Jean smiles. A genuine, unabashed, grateful smile, and he nods. Words are hard for him to verbalize, as they are constantly eluding him at the most inopportune times, but actions, he knows, speak enough volumes for him. By instinct, he also knows Marco receives them well and understands, and that is more comforting to Jean then he can say.

He grabs his briefcase, and begins to untangle his earbuds from his phone when Marco asks again, “Jean?”

He turns around, and now it’s Marco’s turn to be fidgety, biting his nails and staring at the floor. He steals himself though, putting his arms down at his sides and looking at Jean with open curiosity. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” A beat of silence passes as Jean ponders how to answer, and Marco cracks a smirk. “How are you going to work without your cinnamon coffee?”

Spring has sprung all over in Manhattan, and not only because the weather is climbing in temperature and balcony doors to apartments are wide open to the blue skies they overlook.

There are flowers blooming in Jean’s chest, and he waters them with sugar-crystalized pastries and freckled sunbeam smiles.

Jean shrugs and he feels those flowers take root in his stomach. “Wouldn’t be a day without a trip to The Flour Patch, now would it?”

 

* * *

 

Marco waves from the front door, and Jean waves back as he heads down the street and descends the steps to the subway station. The ride home is pleasant, and this time, he makes sure to get off the right stop. Even if he’s thankful he didn’t the first time.

(It was a good day to go into work after all.)

 

* * *

 

By the time he gets home, exhaustion catches up to Jean and he all but collapses on his couch. He’s relieved that he finished the manuscript while at work during the day, because it leaves his night open for the usual fun things like ramen noodles and crappy television.

Jean huffs and chances a glance at his cramped kitchen. He peers at it from his faceplant position on the sofa and thinks about just how long he's been living here. His cabinets are older than he is and yellowing at the corners, his oven has only been used to preheat pre-made dinners. The rest of his apartment is just the same: haunting, cracking, falling apart as years pass. There’s no love, no “homey” quality his books always talk about houses having.

Jean just lives there.

The thoughts are quickly dismissed; he had a nice evening with, dare he say, _friends_ , and he doesn’t want to taint the afterglow of the amicable atmosphere he spent time in. He makes the split decision to treat himself to a bath and promptly launches himself off the couch, stripping out of his clothes as he makes his way to the bathroom. Only Jean’s boxers remain as he turns on the tap to a hot enough temperature and slips those off when he’s satisfied with it.

The bathroom door remains slightly ajar as he carefully lowers himself into the water, and as soon as his aching muscles come in contact with the surrounding calidity, he sighs in contentment.

Jean lets his body sink to the bottom of the tub, mostly submerged except for his face, which is below the water up to his nose. He leans his head against the tub and allows his fingers to trace idle patterns atop the water. His fingertips barely grace the surface, featherlight contact creating small ripples that expand and dissolve the farther along the water they go. Eventually the ripples' rings reach the tub's walls, and they dissipate altogether.

Closing his eyes, Jean allows a moment or two to gather himself, to really take in the moment and his surroundings. He feels the steam ghost in tendrils across his cheekbones, listens to the steady drip drip drip of the tap that was never fixed. The closer Jean’s ears are to the water, the clearer he can hear the hum of the building’s generators through the ancient walls. Jean leans and slowly dips his head back, until his ears are engulfed and only his eyes and nose are above the water.

He closes his eyes and breathes, and he hears his lungs become wind tunnels. Each inhale brings a gush of wind through his nose, into his trachea, surging through his bronchial tubes, and each exhale pushes it back out to cause tornadoes that undulate in his bloodstream. Jean allows his mind to slow and his breathing to become even, and he imagines his body is the land and he is made entirely of tunnels and caves and crevices unexplored. He is a temple with all of its windows open, letting in the gusty summer breezes.

He is a pipe organ, pressing on keys to test their power. Jean’s been pressing all this time, testing the waters and seeing which ones allow which passageways to be open. It’s been a steady process, but he’s been learning that some keys, when pressed together, make such beautiful music. Each friend has their own key, he’s realized, and when combined, his heart produces the beautiful melody of a reassuring heartbeat. There are more wind pipes open than he'd ever thought possible, and they have become complimentary, rudimentary, and oh does the pipe organ sing.

Jean’s heart sings, and it’s the most delicately charming sound he’s sure he's ever made.


	6. Amaretto Biscottis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is amaretto biscottis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shakes fist at university hello i've been drowning in literature (which is arguably not a bad thing). here's chapter 6! sorry it took so long to get out but it's here it's here. feedback is always appreciated! pardon any mistakes, as this is unbeta-ed and entirely on me. 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com)

It goes against everything he stands for.

Years of crafting sugar and perfecting oven times and proportioning flour and flavoring, for what? Baking is Marco’s form of art that he has cultivated and loved and nurtured until it came to him as breathing did: natural, automatic, rhythmic. The beats of his whisk in a bowl of eggs are beats in songs, and the crackling of wrappers as he peels them off sticks of butter are lyrics that haven’t been sung yet. Every click of his heel as he paces the bakery floors are the metronome that strings together the song of pastries, and it has taken him years to hear the beat and to learn that it’s okay to sing along. 

All of his hard work, all of his experience and unconditional love for pastry could arguably be brought into question had Eren, Armin, or even Jean witnessed what Marco is currently making; he is sure more than a scolding would be in order. He’s kind of ashamed, feeling like he’s betraying his own passion, and quietly chiding himself for using such a cheap trick to satisfy this bubbling need for chocolate. 

Who even is he? What kind of person does this, after going against his father’s wishes to be in medicine to do something he was so in love with? How could he go against his own dreams? Marco is appalled at himself; this isn’t like him and he wants to cry.

He huffs in a huge breath and takes the step forward, throwing the mug into the microwave and slamming the door shut before he has time to back out of it. The time on the microwave is set for two minutes, and Marco paces his small kitchen as his brownie in a mug starts cooking. 

Marco Bodt, head baker and owner of a flourishing bakery in one of the richest and most amazing cities in the world, reduced to making brownie in a mug. It’s unethical.

 _“Marco! What are you doing?! You have walnuts and caramel and blocks of chocolate sitting right downstairs in your bakery, and you’re making a_ microwave brownie?” Marco can hear his grandmother’s voice chiding him, and he cringes. Poor Nanny, she’d be so distraught if she could see what he’s doing, weakened to fake pastries based on a recipe he found online.

The microwave beeps and Marco jumps about a foot in the air. “Don’t scare me like that!” He whispers, because talking to inanimate objects around his tiny apartment upstairs has become a habit he’s picked up from living alone.

It’s 2:30 in the morning as Marco settles into his secondhand couch with his sleeves over his hands as he cradles the mug brownie. He woke up from a nightmare a half hour before, drenched in sweat with the echoes of screams still ringing in his ears. Chocolate is one of his best soothers, and so he hopped out of bed with the speed of a coyote and found the quickest recipe for something chocolate he could make without having to fire up the oven. Thus, the mug brownie was born, crafted from sugar, no spice, but everything nice (debatable). 

Marco wiggles his back into his couch and turns on the TV. He doesn’t have much time for show-watching, but when he does, FoodNetwork, NCIS, and Law and Order SVU are his go-to shows. USA and FoodNetwork are very kind to him.

After his mug brownie is devoured (that he ate with guilty pleasure, which he will admit to no one ever, Marco dozes off on his couch to the sound of Giada de Laurentiis making biscottis.

 

* * *

  

He wakes up at 4:30am and decides that biscottis are going to be the pastry for the day.

Silently thanking Giada for her pastry wisdom in his time of mug brownie distress, he hops in the shower and sings a song he created on the spot about how biscottis are good but break your teeth. 

As per usual, Marco does his little workout, let's Eren and Armin in as soon as they arrive at the back door of the bakery, and fires up his ovens to preheat at 350°.

“Alright boss man, what’s on the menu for today?” Eren asks, rolling up his sleeves and mentally preparing for something mildly ridiculous.

Marco puts his hands on his hips and proudly puffs his chest. “Amaretto biscottis with almonds and chocolate drizzle. Maybe a very light sprinkle of sea salt, if you want to be adventurous.”

“Huh. That’s...surprisingly normal. You sure you don’t want to turn them into fairy cookies or something?”

Armin punches Eren’s shoulder, and Eren turns to him with a loud, _“Ow!”_

“I think that sounds really good, Marco.” Armin counters as he shoves Eren towards the pantry. Eren mumbles something along the lines of “I didn’t say it didn’t sound good, jeez.” Armin just points to the pantry and Eren groans as he does what he’s told. “What do we need?”

“Hmm,” Marco thinks about the properties of biscottis and knows that in order for it to achieve that infamous hardness that could crack dentures, brown sugar definitely needs to be involved. “Okay. We’re going to need…”

Marco leads the way into the pantry as Eren regains his footing from stumbling, courtesy of a light push from Armin, and turns the light on. Looking around at the stocked shelves of ingredients that could rot teeth with one bite, he peers behind jars of chocolate chips, bags of yeast and corn starch and jars of honey. As he goes, Marco mumbles, “white sugar, light brown sugar, baking powder, flour...what am I missing?”

Armin strides in behind them, looking around the shelves and grabbing the unsalted almonds, amaretto liqueur, and, of course, chocolate for melting. “I have them, Marco.”

“Great!” Marco dumps everything in his arms into Eren’s, who yelps in surprise, and runs to Armin to make sure it’s the right chocolate. “Semi-sweet chocolate bars. Armin, you are a gem.”

The three of them carry the smallest amount of each ingredient, because a test-batch is always important before you start using quantities that create numerous trays; you need to know how the recipe will come out first, otherwise you’ll have hundreds of cookies that’ll potentially taste like ashes. (Marco knows this, and sometimes he has nightmares about the sheer waste of ingredients used because he forgot to make a test-batch. Rest in peace, fifteen pounds of caramel.) The last step before baking is to always wash your hands, and the three of them get their fingers squeaky clean so they can start. 

“Eren,” Marco points to Eren. “In fridge. Stick of butter. Two eggs. Go get.” 

“Okay, Yoda.” Eren rolls his eyes, huffs out a laugh, and goes to get Yoda’s requested items.

“Armin.” Marco points to Armin. “No piping for you today unless we get more orders. I am very terribly sorry.”

Armin puts his hand over his heart and hangs his head, blonde strands falling loose from his ponytail and covering his eyes. “Truly tragic. How will I go on?” 

“Not to fear, for biscottis are here!” Marco goes over to the metal rack on the back wall of the kitchen, where all of his pots, pans and bakery utensils shine and wait to be used. He grabs a pan, a roll of parchment paper, and a medium-sized bowl for mixing. Once he returns to the main work station, Marco puts down the pan and covers it in parchment paper to set aside. Eren returns with the eggs and butter, and Marco passes the butter to his left. “Armin, could you cut half the stick and melt it in a small bowl? When you’re done, give the other half to Eren to put back in the fridge.” Both boys nod and do as their told.

 _There’s that familiar beat_ , Marco thinks, as he begins orchestrating his ingredients into harmonization within the bowl.

Once the butter is melted, Marco pours it into the bigger bowl, along with ½ a cup of white sugar, ½ a cup of the light brown sugar, 2 teaspoons of baking powder, ¼ teaspoon of salt, and 2 cups of flour. The recipe Marco recalls requires quite a bit of the amaretto liqueur, but not wanting the taste to be too strong, pours in just a splash. As soon as everything is together, Marco mixes it the old fashion way, with a thick wooden spoon and a lot of elbow grease. Soon, a smooth, sticky batter is formed, and Marco looks around the station for the jar of halved, unsalted almonds, which Eren hands to him once he sees him searching. The cups of almonds are directly proportionate to the cups of flour, and so Marco pours two cups of almonds into the batter and reaches for a baking spatula.

“Remember, when you have to add the almonds in, don’t mix them in. You have to fold them, like this.” Armin and Eren watch as Marco slips the spatula down the side of the bowl underneath the batter, lifts it, and folds the bottom over the top. “Guide the spatula along the bowl until you get to the bottom and fold once you reach the middle, or as close to it as you can get.” He does this repeatedly, making sure to fold each portion in until the almonds are evenly spread out within the mix. “Here,” Marco hands out the spatula to Eren. “I want you both to try it two times so I see how your wrist work is.” Eren takes the smooth handle as Marco pushes the bowl in front of him, and mimics Marco’s motions. Eren is a bit hesitant and his wrist is loose; he goes too far down the bowl the first time and folds too much of the batter. “That’s okay, try it again.” With Marco’s hand on his own, Eren slides the utensil down the side of the bowl with Marco’s help, and right before he goes to fold, Marco’s hand goes to Eren’s wrist and squeezes. “Tighten your wrist just a bit before you fold so you don’t hurt yourself and so the spatula has more of a grip on the batter to fold it over. There you go,” Marco coaches, and the second time Eren folds, it’s as good as Marco had done it before. “That was really good, Eren. Just remember to go down far enough and keep your wrist together.” 

“Now you,” Marco says, as he slides the bowl from in front of Eren to in front of Armin. Eren hands his boyfriend the spatula and whispers, “Go, baby, go.” Armin rolls his eyes and takes the spatula in hand. 

Armin’s first try is a little bit better than Eren’s in that his fold is better, but he doesn’t grab enough of it. “Not bad! Before you do it again, make sure to slide the spatula further down the side of the bowl so you can fold more of it. I know it’s a bit harder because the batter is stickier than bread dough, but you have arm muscles, Armin. I believe in you.” Armin chuckles and tries again, this time much better. 

“My pupils are such quick learners,” Marco fake sniffles, “they grow up so fast.” 

“Oh would you stop it,” Armin laughs. “What’s next?”

Marco sticks his hand in the bag of flour and sprinkles a very small bit on the counter to work on. “We’re going to split it.” 

And split it he does. Marco gathers the sticky batter in one ball within the bowl and picks it up, depositing it on the thin layer of flour. After shaping it into something of a lumpy rectangle, Marco, mostly for dramatic effect, karate-chops his hand right in the middle, going back and forth in a knifing motion until the rectangle is divided into equal-sized squares. “So now we have two lumps of the batter. Once you get this, you’re going to take them and shape them into two, 3-inch wide rectangles on the sheet pan, like so.” Marco takes one of the squares and reshapes it to become a 3-inch wide lumpy blob and puts it on the parchment-papered pan he set aside earlier. He does the same with the second ball of goodness and sets them a good distance from each other on the pan. “You bake these for twenty-five minutes or until golden brown, like every recipe in existence says. The only tricky part is you need to set the timer precisely because we’re going to have to cut them.”

Marco puts the rectangles into the oven and sets the timer for twenty-five minutes. They decide that while they wait for the cookies to be done, they’ll be productive, and start setting up the rest of the bakery for the day.

Armin turns on the lights at the front of the bakery and helps Eren bring pastries from the fridge out to the display cases. They set up the coffee machines, count the money in the register, and open the blinds on the windows facing the street. Someone is standing on the corner, a little over an hour and a half early until the shop actually opens, but he smiles and waves at Eren, who waves back. Months working in the bakery and Eren never knows if he should be flattered that people wait for so long for the doors to open, or scared of the stampeding that ensues as soon as the lock comes off.

The timer rings and everyone stands around the oven as Marco pulls out the tray with gloved and careful hands. “Perfecto! Phase One: complete.”

Marco sets the tray onto the table and removes the gloves. “Now we wait another ten minutes for it to cool a bit.”

Eren hums. “Hey Marco, don’t you think this recipe will be a little slow for today?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… it’s not a fast-paced recipe, yanno.”

“I think what Eren’s trying to get at,” Armin politely interjects, “is that there’s a lot of waiting involved. For ordinary cookies like chocolate chip, once the oven rings, the cookies are done. You plate them and they’re ready for eating. With these, it’s in the oven, take it out, wait again, and I’m assuming we put them back in the oven, yes?” 

“Yeah, to take out any leftover moisture.”

“Right. Don’t you think it’s a bit too time consuming?” 

“Hmmm,” Marco hums, and now that he thinks about, they’re right. He didn’t really consider the time it took to make them because he’s so used to making them in small batches for personal enjoyment, not bakery-wide enjoyment. He gets an idea though, and saves the day. “How about we do this. Whenever we make the specials, we make them continuously throughout the day, yeah? They’ve always been all-day specials. But what if for these we just make them for a limited time?” 

Eren crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Well, we don’t have to make them all day, because I think you’re right - it is too time consuming a treat for our busy bakery. So instead, we’ll make around fifteen batches and sell those. Plus, from a selling standpoint, it’ll make people want to buy them all the more if they’re only here for a shorter time.”

“You should’ve gone into marketing,” is Armin’s smart remark. “But I think it’s a good idea. You can’t have a special of the day without something special, and we do want people to enjoy them.”

Eren nods and looks over to the cooled cookie tray. “Tell us what to do with that first and then we’ll see about fifteen freakin’ batches of these things.” 

They crowd around the work station again, and this time, Marco’s expertly wielding a ceramic knife and holding it over golden lump number one. “So now that it’s cool enough to handle, we’re going to cut the cookies in one-inch segments, like this. For every lump, you should get eight to ten cookies.” Marco secures the cookie in place and positions the knife one inch apart from the edge and continues to cut up the rectangle, slice by slice. By the time he finishes, 9 biscottis are cut. Sliced almonds are scattered throughout each cookie slice and the nutty amaretto wafting from them makes it incredibly hard to resist eating them just like that.

Marco cuts the second rectangle the same way as the first, and when he’s finished with the second one, he has nineteen cookies ready for the oven. “For the last part of this, you’re going to put each cookie on it’s side and spread out as evenly as u can get them. We’re going to stick them back in the oven to suck out any remaining moisture, which is what makes the cookie as hard as it is and why it breaks everyone’s teeth.”

“But wait,” Eren mutters, watching Marco put the pan back in the oven for three minutes. “If these are like, the jawbreakers of cookies, then why do people eat them?" 

“Because, my dear, sweet, sweet little man, the taste is too good. Pastry overcomes all obstacle, and to be a connoisseur in pastry, you must let go of anything that gets in your way! Fight, Eren! Fight for the almonds and amaretto! Fight for the chocolate drizzle to come! Have you no pride in your creation?!”

“Yes sir, I do!”

“What was that?!”

_“Yes sir, I do!”_

“Good! Now go get a pot filled with water, put it on the stove to boil, and melt me some chocolate! Am I understood?!”

“Sir yes sir!” Eren flees to the utensil rack, grabs a pot, a clean bowl, another spatula, and runs to the stoves. He brings the pot to the sink and fills it enough for chocolate melting, heats it up, and takes out bars of chocolate to break into smaller pieces. Marco knows the chocolate is still good based on the crisp snap of each piece Eren breaks off, and he smiles wide at his cookie soldier.

The three minutes are up, and Eren retrieves the cookies so they can cool some before being chocolated. Armin just watches, trying not to give in to their silly antics, but winds up laughing at Eren’s military-rigid posture and Marco’s commanding officer orders.

Eren keeps the cookies in the tray to cool off some before chocolate graces them. The water heats up quickly, and soon the chunks of chocolate turn into molten cubes. Eren’s melted it so that it’s not entirely liquified, but thick enough that he can string it from the spatula’s end right over the cookies. He dips the spatula in the bowl of melted goo, lifts the end of the utensil out of the bowl, and carries it over the tray of biscottis. He goes back and forth in his motions, creating a diagonal drizzle of chocolate over the edges. Marco is impressed and proud, happy that Eren’s so concentrated in his task and ecstatic at the end result, even if they still have to taste them. Eren puts the tray in the fridge for a minute or two to let the chocolate harden before they try out the first creation of the day.

After setting up the last of what’s needed to be awakened in the kitchen for the day, Armin retrieves the cooled tray from the fridge and sets it on the counter. “Bon apetit!”

Marco shakes his head “I’m Italian, Armin, not French. For shame.” 

“Hush and eat your cookies.”

The three of them all pick up one from the tray, examine it, and take a tentative bite, which requires more jaw work than anticipated. 

Eren wasn’t wrong by naming biscottis “the jawbreaker of cookies.” By putting them in the oven and removing any residual moisture, the cookies become hard as rock and require teeth in mostly good condition and jaws that eat with the intention of crushing bone. However, when finally broken down enough to be deemed edible, the three bakers sigh with happiness at the cookie turnout. Marco made the right call in withholding a lot of the amaretto liqueur - just a little was enough to compliment the nuttiness of the almonds and the stark crunch of the baked top crust of the cookie. The chocolate is a beautiful addition, Armin thinks, because the semi-sweet combined with the nut is a combination so good it melts in your mouth.

Once they confirm the recipe is solid and secure a spot for the biscottis on the top shelf in one of the display cases out front, Eren comes back and they prepare to get down to business.

“Armin!” Marco whips around and points to Armin.

He decides to play along with their earlier shenanigans, and responds, “Captain!”

“Let’s get going already! Fire up the mixers, we’re making more biscottis.”

“Roger that!” 

Armin does the math and quadruples the recipe for the big-time mixers to handle the batter pre-almond-fold, and Eren gets the big bags of everything needed for the larger batches. Marco knows Armin’s memory is incredibly sharp, and he’s confident that he remembered all the steps for the recipe.

They fall into mutual motion, intertwining and supporting one another in practiced beats. Armin handles batter creation, folding, and putting them in for the twenty-five minutes, Marco takes care of the cutting and sucking of moisture oven time (while getting some baguettes in the oven in between), and Eren does the drizzle, while also helping Armin when he has time in the middle of drizzle batches. Marco forgot to put the radio on earlier, and as he has his hands in a bowl of bread dough, he tells Eren to go turn it on up front when he has a minute. Eren puts on Taylor Swift as a joke and sings about poppyseed bagels (to Marco’s embarrassment) before he changes the channel. It’s a John Mayer station, and the soft guitar fills the bakery with the glow of a welcome morning.

By the time the bakery is set to open at 6 AM fresh baguettes are made, bagels are in the works, coffee is already brewing, and six out of the fifteen batches of biscottis are done. Marco takes over drizzle control and Eren is assigned register duty; neither one wanted to disrupt the rhythm Armin has set for himself. Eren pumps his fist in the air, makes some comment about “finally seeing what the outside world looks like during the day for once,” and cheerfully greets the morning rush with coffee and limited cookies.

 

* * *

 

Jean is running a bit late today.

He woke up this morning on time, had his cup of tea on time, showered, dressed, and left his apartment on time. He did his routine like he does every morning when he has to go to work to a T, not a hair out of place. 

So it’s a wonder why, oh why, the MTA can’t do their part and be on time.

Jean has been sitting at the Bayside train station for far longer than he needs to; his train is delayed 30 minutes, and by the time he actually gets to Penguin, he’ll be a little over an hour late. A text to Levi letting him know of his belated arrival to the office quells the larger part of his worries, and Levi’s response makes Jean go from near-panicking to merely agitated.

 _From: Levi  
_ _It’s fine, can’t be helped. When you get here, Dellaira’s manuscript is on your desk and ready for the millionth revision. Looks good._

 _To: Levi  
_ _Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to look at it as soon as I arrive._

Jean bounces his leg and checks his watch for the third time in two minutes. After what feels like centuries, his train finally comes and he’s the first one on. He grabs a seat next to the window and leans his head back, listening to the screeching doors slide shut and feeling the lurch of the car as it starts to move forward. 

Homes of people Jean will never know pass by through scratched windows and people he’ll never see again in his life walk down sidewalks alone, with families, dancing to music from their headphones below the tracks. Jean loves people watching, and constantly being surrounded by different people with faces he’s never seen before isn’t as scary as it used to be to him; he’s learned to find it almost refreshing. _Don’t you find it interesting,_ Jean often wants to ask, _that there can be millions of people with so many differences, and yet still we find commonalities with so many of them? Don’t you find it interesting that, by chance, you happened to be next to this person at this exact time at this exact same place? Is that coincidence, or something else? Neither can be explained, and I find that absolutely fascinating._

Jean doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he believes in something less than fate. Something called chance.                                                                 

_(Psychosophy: doctrine or theory of the soul.)_

Jean’s curious mind is always spinning, always thinking, always wondering about questions he knows have no answers but that keep him up at night anyway as he tries to find them. It’s as exhausting as it is fascinating. 

As his mind circles, he reaches into his bag for his black book to write down a few lines before he forgets, only the black book isn’t there. He forgot the black book at home.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Jean mutters to himself. He rummages around his bag, pushing aside folders with loose papers and stapled manuscripts and drafts of ideas, pens and pencils, but doesn’t come across his book. “ _Damnit_.” 

What he does find, and what keeps him from an already rising panic attack, is a stack of blue post-its, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He sighs and tries to breathe. “I guess you’ll do.”

_6/2/14_

_various homes and_  
_various people tend to_  
_fail at opening_

_the windows._

_but these various_  
_homes with various people_  
_have nothing to fear._

_maybe they will learn._

He folds the poem and puts it in his pants pocket.

 _I'll write it in tonight_ , he promises, and hops off the train at Penn Station twenty minutes later.

 

* * *

 

“ _Ooooooooh_ editor’s pet is _laaaaaate_!” Is Sasha’s very friendly greeting upon Jean’s arrival upstairs.

“Levi’s gonna have your ass.” Is Connie’s.

“ _Ooooooooh_ editor’s pet is _aaaaass-less!_ ” Is Sasha’s very eloquent addition.

Jean grumbles past them and ignores the scraping of the break room chairs behind him. “Would you guys shut up. He already knows I’m late.”

Finally, a dejected Connie chimes in last on the matter with, “Bummer. Would’ve loved to see your ass mounted above his desk.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow and whispers, “I didn’t know you had a thing for Jean’s ass.” 

“What? It’s nice.”

Sasha taps her finger against her chin and watches Jean walk to his desk wearing pants that do nothing but support Connie’s aesthetic appreciation of Jean’s bum. “Hmm, you got a point.” 

“Can you guys stop staring at my ass and actually do your jobs for once?” Jean throws over his shoulder, and he walks past the break room, down the hall and rows of cubicles until he arrives at his own. He tosses his bag onto his chair and picks up the manuscript left for him, as per Levi. 

Connie, thinking he’s the slyest fox in the world, spins over to Jean’s desk on the wheelie chair of the empty cubicle next to him and pops his head around the corner. “Whatcha got there?”

“A manuscript, what else could it be?”

“Jeez, someone’s touchy today.” Connie wheels himself next to Jean’s chair and props his cheek into his hand. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.” Moving his bag onto the floor and sitting into his own wheelie chair, Jean huffs and puts the manuscript down so he can lean his cheek against the wood. “I forgot the black book at home, the MTA is, as always, completely unreliable, and…” He pauses and heaves out another sigh, mumbling, “I didn’t get to go to the bakery this morning.”

Connie claps his hands hard on the wood of Jean’s desk and leans forward. “Now _there’s_ something juicy!”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me! You been going there?”

Jean closes his eyes and internally debates whether or not he’s grateful to have Connie as a best friend. “Maybe.” 

“Huh. Interesting.” Connie leans back and crosses his ankle over his knee and strokes his imaginary beard, deep in imaginary thought with his imaginary brain. “And have you befriended this baker man?” 

“Maybe.”

“Mucho interesante." 

“You don’t speak Spanish, Con. It’s _muy_ interesante.”

“Neither do you, so who are you to tell me it’s not mucho?” 

Sasha slides up in another wheelie chair on the opposite side of Jean and gives her boyfriend an apologetic look. “Sorry _babe_ , English degree is right on this one. It’s muy interesante.” 

Connie sits up in his chair and points his finger at Jean. “Uh, newsflash: _English_ degree. Spanish isn’t English, babe.”

Jean groans and turns his face so his forehead rests against his desk. “Don’t you guys have jobs? Do you ever do them?”

“Yes, actually, we do,” Connie crosses his arms and leans back so his chair is dipping backwards. “We are esteemed members of the Penguin Publishing Graphic Design and Marketing Department, and I am here to tell you that it is mucho interesante. In fact, I am so confident in my claim that I bet dinner on it.”

Much to his dismay, Connie lets out a wail of defeat a few minutes later as Jean pulls up every translator and article on _mucho_ vs. _muy_ in the Spanish language, proving that it is muy interesante. Sasha and Jean high five at the promise of free dinner as Connie wallows in his agony.

The morning passes rather quickly, and it turns out Connie and Sasha actually had work to do upon Jean’s arrival but procrastinated as long as they could. After being pushed out of Jean’s cubicle, Thing One and Thing Two hung their heads and went back upstairs to work on projects of their own and left Jean to his editing. The manuscript Levi left for him is one he’s been working on for months; the author’s original work needed so much revising that it pushed back deadlines to the point where Levi himself had to sit down with her and map out her novel from scratch. This is the third re-writing of it, and as Jean looks it over and adds his commentary, corrects grammar and sentence structure mistakes, he agrees with Levi - it does look good.

Jean gets so caught up in the revisions to be made that he doesn’t look at the time until it’s already three in the afternoon. Half of his corrections are done, surprisingly, which comes as a relief to him; now he doesn’t have to do so much work when he goes home for the night, but not before he gets his free dinner from his favorite idiot cover artist.

Deciding a break is much needed, Jean stands up from his chair and stretches, listening to his shoulders pop in odd places and his neck crack after being bent over for so long. It’s a nice relief, and he heads to the elevator to go for a walk to stretch his legs some, too. 

Spare cash in his pants pocket lets Jean by himself a salted pretzel from the street vendor on the corner, and he walks around the block munching on warm bread and inviting fresh air to fill his lungs. The city today shows no mercy, as always, in assaulting eardrums; taxi horns are blaring, ambulances race down crowded streets, vendors are loudly raving about their fake products in hopes of reigning in sales. There is no rest in New York City, but Jean likes it. It keeps him on his toes, alert of what’s happening and what’s to be avoided. Interaction isn’t necessary, and if he had to choose his favorite quality about the city, that’d be it.

He finishes his pretzel leaning against a marble building on the corner of King Street, wipes his hands of stray salt, and stuffs them back in his pockets. He walks back to the office with a song on his tongue, but keeps the windows shut in favor of singing in his head.

 

* * *

 

Levi is thumbing through the manuscript at Jean’s desk when Jean turns the corner to his cubicle, and he feels like his heart is about to take up permanent residence in his shoes. 

He’s rooted to the spot, song dead and hands sweating at his sides. Immediately, he’s worried.

_He won’t like my revisions._

_He’ll disagree with my comments._

_I corrected an already correct sentence and made it worse._

_I’m making it all worse._  

No matter how confident he is in his job, no matter how much he loves it, Jean will always have this lingering doubt that he isn’t good enough.

Levi looks up and sees Jean watching him go through the work, and he nods his head. “Didn’t mean to pry, just curious.” 

Jean tightens his lips and nods back, accepting an apology he finds hidden in Levi’s words.

Putting the manuscript where he found it and walking back to his office, Levi adjusts his suit jacket and passes Jean. “It’s good, Kirschtein. Stop fretting and find some more confidence.” The Grim Reaper in his Armani suit retires to his office, and Jean is spared from death. Complimented by Him, even. Jean isn’t sure if he’s already dead and this is just some ghost dream, or if he’s, by some miracle, alive to tell the tale. 

Something like pride tumbles within Jean’s ribcage and crawls up his esophagus, bleeds into his muscles and forces an unstoppable smile to unfurl. All doubt has been eradicated, and Jean remembers why he loves his job so much in the first place.

 

* * *

 

“Dude! _Dude!_ What in the _fresh hell?!_ ” Connie has nearly choked on his sushi twice now, chugging three glasses of water and calling for a fourth. “Are you _serious?_ Levi doesn’t compliment _anyone_. Has that ever been done before? I mean I know he compliments Mr. Smith but that’s like, a whole different story. You see I have this theory that they’re -”

Connie’s sentence is cut off with a quick jab to the ribs, courtesy of Sasha. “What Connie _meant_ to say, was that’s awesome, Jean. Four for you, Glen Coco! No, _five_ for you, Glen Coco. You’re better than her. You deserve five.” 

“Thanks, Sash. I honestly thought I was dead for a solid ten seconds, but I’m still alive.” 

“ _I will survive, hey hey,_ ” Connie whisper-sings into his sushi before taking a bite. He thinks no one heard him, but Jean and Sasha both have eyes on him that read, “you’re a lunatic.” 

Post-Levi-heart-attack incident, Jean did three more chapter’s worth of editing until he called it quits for the day. It was more like Sasha called it quits, because she came rushing to his cubicle in “dire need” of food or she’d “die,” and the more Jean tried to ignore her hungry groaning, the louder she became. Jean caved, but only because he didn’t want to aggravate Levi and have his only compliment revoked.

They decided on sushi, a nice break from their usual italian. Connie’s loudly proclaimed passion for spicy foods forced him to order the spiciest thing on the menu, and every bite earns a chug of ice water, much to Sasha’s amusement. Most of the near-death-by-sushi instances have been because of the spice level, only one of them caused by Jean with his telling of the Levi Incident in the morning. 

Connie takes a quick swig of water and sighs. “Damn, I can’t believe it. Levi actually has _feelings_. Actual, positive feelings that don’t equate to basking in the draining life forces of his editors. Amazing.”

Sasha catches Jean’s smile, and grins into her sake. 

Their meal carries on and Connie refuses to give in and say his sushi is too spicy. He eats the entire roll, and by the end of it, has had ten glasses of water. His face is redder than a cooked lobster for Christmas Eve dinner, and neither Jean nor Sasha have ever seen Connie run to the bathroom so fast in all the time they’ve known him. They laugh until he comes back, red in the face for an entirely different reason, and pushes the eleventh glass of water away. “Peed a fuckin’ river.”

“Oh I bet, Con,” Sasha gets out in between wheezes.

“Shut up, will ya.” 

At 6:45PM, Thing One, Thing Two, and their ring leader exit the restaurant with linked arms, and Jean’s song finds its way up again. He hums as Sasha swings their arms to the tune, and a different kind of warmth settles in Jean’s cheeks. 

Jean expects them to leave him at the subway station and be on their way, but to his surprise, they follow him down the stairs and swipe their metrocards to get on the platform with him. 

Curiosity getting the better of him, Jean asks, “Going somewhere?”

Connie grins a Cheshire cat grin and raises an eyebrow, as if he’s caught Jean in a lie he has yet to defend against. “We should be asking you that question, gingerbread man.”

“Excuse me.”

“You heard me.”

Jean crosses his arms and squints at his tiny friend. “And _why_ should you be asking me that question?” 

“Oh, I dunno.” Connie swings his leg in a circle and starts pacing, causing the few bystanders to slowly walk away from the trio. “Maybe because the night is still young, as are you, and so is a handsome baker man.”

Sasha unintentionally lets out a snort, covering her face with her hands as she giggles into her palms, because now it’s Jean’s turn to take on the role of Christmas Eve lobster.

“Yeah, so? What if I was goin’ there? I told you I didn’t get to go this morning.” 

“Hmmmm.” Tennis shoes squeak against the concrete of the subway platform as Connie circles the frozen editor, who’s fiddling with the stray thread hanging from the waistband of his pants. “So you go every morning?”

“None of your business.” Jean huffs and stands on the edge of the platform as the 1 subway train pulls in, gusts of wind stirring Sasha’s skirt and Connie’s tie.

They leave the matter be, but when Jean gets off at the 23rd Street station, Connie and Sasha are right on his heels. He turns around confused and looks at both of them. “Are you following me?”

“Yes,” they say in unison, completely unabashed and with smiles to boot. 

If Jean has learned anything about what he has in common with Sasha and Connie, it’s that their stubbornness is of equal levels between the three of them, which, in times like these, can be troublesome. He knows that no matter what he says, they will not leave, and no matter what he does, they will follow until they get what they want. What it _is_ they want, well, Jean hasn’t the faintest idea. 

Instead of trying to figure it out, Jean sighs and walks toward the bakery, hands stuffed as deep as his pockets will allow, when his fingers find the post-it poem he wrote on the train this morning. It gives him some fleeting sense of courage, and with a newfound sense of confidence, Jean holds his head higher and walks with more purpose.

Sasha catches Jean’s stride, and grins into her hand as the other one holds onto Connie’s.

 

* * *

 

All of the batches of biscottis are gone from the shelves when Jean, Connie, and Sasha enter The Flour Patch.

The small chime rings as Jean opens the door, and the immediate aroma of breads and coffee welcomes him back. A few tables are taken and the last of customers on line walk out the door as the three come in.

“Smells even better than the last time,” Connie grins, holding onto Sasha’s arm a little tighter at the promise of desserts. 

“Damn right it does. What’re we gettin’, sugarpop?” 

“Dunno, let’s go look.” 

Shenanigans are put on hold for the time being, as the grown-up children gaze through the display cases with starry eyes. Jean can’t help but laugh, and when the familiar call of “Welcome to The Flour Patch!” greets him, the smile, however small, stays.

(Sasha doesn’t catch this one, but she can feel it.) 

“Welcome back, stranger. Bailed on us this morning, tut tut.” Eren leans against the counter, hair brushed behind his ear and a smirk on his face. Jean doesn’t have time to retort, because Eren is already jumping into his order. “Lemme guess - medium hot coffee, milk, sugar, dash of cinnamon?” 

Jean gives Eren a smirk of his own, and pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his pants to get a five dollar bill. “Good memory.” 

Eren takes the bill and rings up his order. “If you wanted a cinnamon dolce latte, I don’t know why you wouldn’t just go to Starbucks to get it.”

“If I wanted a cinnamon dolce latte from Starbucks, I’d be there instead of here.”

“Hmm, good point. Whatever, you’re giving me a job. Can’t complain.” 

Eren hands Jean his change and sets about making the cup of coffee, whistling to the song on the speakers. As he waits, Jean turns his head to see Sasha excitedly pointing at something in the display case and Connie agreeing with whatever she said. They get in line behind him, goofy smiles on their faces, and Jean swears he made friends with juveniles. 

When his coffee is finished, Eren hands him the cup and tilts his head toward the kitchen. “Armin and Marco are here if you wanna say hi.”

“Nah, they’re probably busy. I’m with these two, so I’ll let them work." 

Shrugging, Eren moves back to the register and tucks his hair away from his face. “Suit yourself, although they should be done soon.” Jean goes to sit down in his chair that is, thankfully, empty, and waits for Sasha and Connie to finish ordering.

Jean’s thumbs run along the ridges of the cardboard jacket sleeve on his cup as he peruses the titles of books on the shelf from his seat. He sees some medical textbooks, an essay book on psychology and the criminal mind, and a collection of Robert Frost poems. In his periphery, Sasha and Connie walk towards him with four plates worth of pastries, and he’s about to turn to tell them they’re going to throw up if they eat that many sweets after dinner, when a book crammed in the corner of the lowest shelf catches his attention. 

It’s the complete opposite of flashy - worn leather that seems centuries old and peeling at corners barely held together, foxing evident just from the top brim of old pages. It looks ancient, delicate, and a feeling akin to protectiveness grows so strong and so fast in him that Jean ejects himself from his seat and into a crouching position in front of the shelf. He sets his cup on the coffee table, and with careful hands, Jean slides the book from its hiding spot and into his lap back in the chair.

Unable to sit all the way back, Jean sits on the edge of his seat, cradling the book unfit for bakery book shelves: Robert Browning’s complete poetical works in a single, bound collection. The spine is brown with gold spiral designs, the cover with floral print and fraying edges. The first few pages have illustrations - one of a portrait of Browning himself, and a drawing of his home in Italy - and there’s writing of elegant calligraphy under the portrait, with his name handwritten. He turns the page and Connie will swear for years to come that Jean had a stroke at this very moment. There’s a stamp mark. In crisp black ink, reserved beautifully, are the words _Copyright, 1895_.

“ _Jean!_ Hey, earth to bookworm, you in there?” 

Blinking, Jean looks up at Connie, who has powdered sugar all over his face and shirt collar.

“You alright?” 

“Con. _Con._ This is an 1895 print of Robert Browning’s complete poems. An _1895 print_.” 

Connie sits back down and resumes eating his cannoli, adding to the powdered sugar catastrophe that is adorning his clothing and exhibiting his poor table manners. “Yeah, and?”

“And? _And?_ Do you know how priceless this book is? God, it must’ve seen so many people, I’m surprised the foxing on the pages doesn’t render it unreadable. And look at the handwritten calligraphic inscription, I wonder who wrote that. Was it the same year it was published? It’s a bit slanted and shaky, so it might’ve been an older person’s hand, but it’s sturdy so I’d say someone in their sixties at the time. But this should be in the rare books archive, what is it even doing here? It needs to be protected and preserved and not have coffee spilled on it, _did someone spill coffee on it, I’ll_  -”

“Uhm, that’s my copy, actually.”

Jean looks up from his ranting to see Marco smiling down at him, welcoming as ever.

_(Grinagog: one who is constantly smiling.)_

“Oh, I’m - I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you of being a bad book owner. I just wanted to make sure it was okay, I -” 

“You love books, don’t you?”

He feels stupid for just blinking up at him and not verbally responding, but that tends to happen when you put a book into the hands of Jean Kirschtein. Jean smiles down at the cover, fingers lightly tracing the pattern and faded leather, and nods at Marco’s question. 

Why speak words when you can read them? Jean just stares down at the introductory page, naming every poetic work of Browning as if rattling off the names of small trophies. And they are - every work in this octavo edition is an accomplishment to be proud of, because a small boy once latched onto these poems and treated them like prizes. A small boy once read the names on each plaque of gold in the trophy case and smiled because they felt like his own.

Marco perches himself on the armrest of Jean’s chair and grins at the book with him. “My grandmother gave that to me when I was fourteen years old. I didn’t know what they meant, any of those poems. I don’t think I do now either, honestly. But she used to read them to me in her living room while I sat on the floor at her feet and listened. She loved reading poetry, no matter the content. And I loved listening to poetry. No matter the content.”

Jean hummed and held onto the book. “I have yet to read his entire collection, but one of my favorites is dark but so beautiful at the same time, which is such a weird combination, I know. I always wondered if there’d be someone else like him who could make something so cruel be as equally magnificent.”

(Sasha sees two smiles this time.)

Putting her pastry down and wiping napoleon cream from the corner of her mouth, Sasha clears her throat and straightens her posture. “Jean, I think there are more important introductions to take care of besides the introductory page of that book, yeah?” 

“Oh, sorry. Marco, these are my friends Connie and Sasha. Thing One and Thing Two, this is Marco. He owns the bakery.”

Marco laughs at the nicknames and waves. “I’d shake your hands but I don’t think Connie needs any more powdered sugar on his suit and I’d hate to cover your beautiful skirt in flour. It’s nice to meet you guys.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too! Your food is so good, we come by here at least once a week,” is what Connie _would’ve_ said if his mouth wasn’t stuffed with his second cannoli. Luckily, Sasha is fluent in Connie-speak and translates the full-mouthed garbling for Marco, who emits his lighthouse beaming again.

“No kidding! Thank you guys so much, I’m really happy you’re enjoying it. If you ever have a pastry suggestion or wanna stop by to say hello, feel free.”

“Roger that!” Sasha salutes, and dives back into her napoleon. 

“Jean, I just have a few more things to bake for the rest of tonight. It shouldn’t be longer than an hour, if you’re gonna stick around.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I have these two idiots to look after, anyway.” 

Marco rolls his eyes with a snicker and walks back to the kitchen, retying his apron along the way and turning up the music a notch louder. 

“Well, well, well, what have we here.” Connie mutters, and Jean is about to snap at him to mind his own business, but he realizes Connie was talking to the double fudge walnut brownie he is ready to devour. 

Sasha, on the other hand, is quiet and slowly chewing on a crispy pizzelle. She and Jean look at each other and the smile Jean shows her is of understanding and patience. She nods, shifting her focus to Connie and launching into conversation with him on _How To Get Away With Murder_ theories.

Jean is grateful, and carefully turns to the first poem in the collection.

 

* * *

 

The two children manage to eat all four plates of pastries and decide that going home to enter their food coma for the evening is a must. They gather their things and wave goodbye to Marco before hugging Jean.

Connie offers a two-fingered salute to his friend and opens the door. “See ya bright and early, my friend. Don’t be late again!”

“Don’t tell me that, tell the MTA to get their shit together.” 

“If only.” 

Sasha kisses Jean’s cheek and waves behind her as she joins Connie on the sidewalk, linking their arms and clicking her heels. 

Soon enough, 8:30 PM rolls around and the remaining customers bid goodnight to the staff trio. Jean carefully closes the book and gets up to help. He’s used to wiping down a table or two and enjoys helping with closing. They don’t let him do much, but the little he’s allowed to assist in makes him feel better. 

Marco dips back into the kitchen as Jean, Eren, and Armin sit around a table, talking as they usually do. He reemerges with a plate of the last batch of biscottis he saved just for them and sets them down in the middle of the table. “You, my old and new friends, get the last batch of amaretto biscotti cookies I made especially for you.”

“‘M not old,” Eren mumbles as he sleepily munches on a cookie.

“You can be cookie-less, you know,” Armin warns, and goes to take the cookie from Eren. He wins when Eren headbutts his shoulder and shakes his head, muttering something about willing to be old for a night if it means free cookies. 

The shop is closed and the only ones remaining are the four of them. The blinds are shut, the ovens are cooling off, and the lighting is dim enough to see but not bright enough to attract outside attention. It’s become habit for Jean over the course of a two weeks to stay with the crew, eating the leftovers from the day and enjoying each other’s company. It was entirely accidental on Jean’s part; he hates feeling like he’s overstepping boundaries, but every time he went to go, they would tell him to stay, and he would. Tonight they’re mostly quiet, breaking their jaws on biscottis and finding amusement in Eren’s near sleep walking.

Armin shuffles a very sleepy Eren onto his shoulder and carries their bags on the other. “Sorry Marco, but we’re not going to be able to stay late tonight. It’ll be a miracle if I can get Eren off the train, up the stairs, and into bed.”

“And he wonders why it’s so rare for him to be on register duty. Wipes him out, poor thing. You can always stay here, you know I have the air mattresses upstairs.” Armin shakes his head no with a yawn and says something about the beauty of a bed. “Alright then, text me when you get home so I know you two are safe.” 

“Will do.” Armin shuffles him again and heads to the door with Marco at his side to escort him out. “Good night, Jean, safe travels.”

Jean waves goodbye and yawns. “Yeah, you too.”

Once Armin and Eren have left, Marco comes back through the kitchen and goes behind the counter. “I’m gonna steal one more cup of tea before heading upstairs. Want one?" 

“Only if you let me pay for it.”

“It’s after hours and I own this joint. I say what’s free and this is free.”

Marco rummages through the cabinets beneath the coffee maker and pulls out one of his secret stashes of Twining’s pomegranate black tea boxes and fires up a kettle of hot water. He holds up a tea bag to Jean in silent asking, to which Jean nods. Marco smiles and sets to work, adding three sugars to Jean’s mug and two to his own. When the kettle whistles and the steeping has begun, Marco carries the cups to their table and sets them down before seating himself.

“It’s not loose leaf tea, but it’s one of my favorite blends. I mostly save it for the winter, but sometimes you just get a craving." 

Jean blows on his tea and nods. “Understandable.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute, stirring their drinks and listening to cars passing and people walking down the sidewalk on phones and playing music.

“I didn’t think anyone would pick that book out of the shelves in all the time it’s been sitting there.” Marco looks to the bookcase, at the bottom right corner where a book nearly one hundred and twenty years old hides away. “I don’t even remember putting it on the shelf, but...well, I guess I spend the most time in the kitchen, so I wouldn’t’ve known.”

“It’s not damaged. Believe me, I checked every page before reading.”

“I’m sure you did. Thank you, by the way. I’m glad to know it wasn’t lost.”

Jean looks down at his mug and watches his spoon go around and around. “Not lost, just misplaced.” 

Marco crosses his legs and holds his mug in his hands, steam kissing his cheeks. “Is there a difference?”

“I like to think so.”

Marco hums, and nods, thinking over where the line is drawn between lost and misplaced, when Jean downs half his cup of tea and licks his upper lip.

“I didn’t know you lived upstairs.”

It’s certainly not a statement Marco was expecting from Jean, but he can’t help but laugh a little. “Mhmm. My front door is right next to the front of the bakery, but I hardly ever use it. There’s one in the back hallway next to the kitchen that goes right upstairs. Much easier.” 

Jean starts to tap his fingers against the ceramic mug and smiles. “It must smell like pastries all the time, then." 

“Definitely. But the best is when we get a large order of bread to be made. Seeps right through the floorboards, and for at least a week all my belongings smell like dough. It’s actually the most wonderful thing.”

He bobs his head and takes another sip when Marco asks him, “You seemed really interested in that book. Do you work with them?”

“Yeah, I’m an editor at Penguin. Sasha’s in the marketing department and Connie designs the book covers for the manuscripts I work with.”

Marco beams and leans forward in his seat. “That is so cool! So you get to read tons of books and work with authors right?”

Jean doesn’t think anyone’s ever called his job cool, but it’s not a bad feeling to hear that coming from Marco. “Yeah, yeah I do. It’s...pretty neat.” 

A ringing noise comes from Jean’s pants pocket, alerting him that he has a text. “Oh, sorry, hold on one sec.” Marco tells him not to worry and drinks more of his tea.

Of course it’s from Sasha.

 _From: Thing Two_  
_good luck!!! rootin for ya, kiddo._

He has no idea what she means, but quickly texts back. 

 _To: Thing Two_  
_I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about - being filled with napoleon cream doesn’t allow for rational thinking when it’s coming out of your ears. Go to bed._

Jean puts their conversation on mute and sighs. He catches the time before he locks his phone and finishes the rest of his tea.

“Time to go. Bed is calling.”

“I hear ya.”

Jean helps Marco clean up and re-wipes down their table, making sure no garbage or even stray sugar crystals are left behind. Once they’re done, Marco unlocks the front door to the bakery and opens it for Jean. 

“Thanks for staying. See you in the morning?”

“See you in the morning. Good night, Marco.” Jean steps down the first step, and then the second, but he gets an idea and turns around. “Wait, one more thing.” 

Marco raises his eyebrows, body half hidden behind the doorframe and wondering if he forgot something in the bakery. “Yeah?”

“I just, uh,” Jean bites his lip and reaches into his pocket to pull out the blue post-it. “You won’t let me pay with money, so I’m going to pay you the only other way I know how. Here,” He hands Marco the post-it and walks down the steps, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walks down the street.

 

* * *

 

When Marco is upstairs in pajamas on his couch, he opens Jean’s post-it note and reads the poem. He reads it six more times before he gets up and props it against a picture of two on his nightstand beside his bed. The light is turned out, and Marco goes to sleep with a song in his heart.

 

 


	7. Doughnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Flour Patch!  
> Today's special of the day is glazed doughnuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dudes!! whaddup
> 
> bruh im mad late and i have a world of excuses but the big news is i finished my last semester of college and graduated with my BA! i'm a graduate!! hella exciting my friends. that is my main reason for bein absent for so long, apologies all around. hopefully now that school is over and i'm job searching i'll be able to write more frequently.
> 
> anyway, here is chap 7. im so happy this isn't in my google docs anymore bc every time i saw it it killed me. thank u to those who have read, who continue to read, and who waited for my slow ass this whole time, it really means a lot to me. i'm going to try and not take over a year again to publish another chapter.
> 
> ALSO just a quick note: i've been going back and editing the whole fic. nothing of immense importance has changed, but i'm fixing typos and accuracies, things like that. so if ur reading/re-reading and there's something that seems off or different, it was probably something i fixed.
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt), talk to me on [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com), and if ur interested in helping a recent grad pay bills, i have commission info [here](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com/post/150711098277/hello-everyone-im-gonna-keep-this-as-short-as)! cheers kiddos.

“Why haven’t we made doughnuts yet?” 

Marco stands with his hands on his hips in the kitchen early this morning, a look of legitimate confusion aimed right at Eren, who is not awake enough to be stared at so intensely.

Eren looks from Armin, to the countertop, to the fridge, then back to Marco. “Are you asking _me_?”

“Yeah, you. Why haven’t we made doughnuts yet?” 

“Uhm...I don’t...know?”

“Me neither. We’re making doughnuts today. _Glazed_ doughnuts. I have a need.”

And that was how they started: radio on, ovens heating up, and the cacophony of pots and pans their wake up call for the day, a familiar tune. Marco fiddles with the folded piece of yellow paper in his apron pocket and flees into the pantry for supplies. Among them are some of his favorites to work with because they’re so messy: powdered sugar and flour. 

From the pantry, Marco hears Armin talking to Eren about their plans for the upcoming weekend. He carries the ingredients to the countertops for a quick test batch of his mentor’s homemade doughnuts and sets the appropriate bowls around them.

He idly wonders if Jean will stop by, and in his moment of pondering, elbows the bag of flour. Marco catches it before it coats the kitchen floor in white, and chides himself into focusing on the doughnuts.

 

* * *

  

For Jean, the MTA does, for once, “get their shit together,” as he so eloquently complained to Connie the night before. Thankfully, the bus is only a few minutes late, and according to the transit website, the train is running as scheduled. The bus ride to the train station is smooth going, which is a rarity, but welcome when occurring. Not long after he descends the stairs to the tracks, Jean’s train comes to a screeching halt in front of the _WATCH THE GAP_ sign on the pavement. Over the speakers, the automated announcer tells the passengers: _“Please step over the gap between the train and the platform. This is the train to: Penn Station. The next station is: Flushing Main Street.”_ As he finds a window seat in an empty row of three, Jean readjusts his glasses and reaches into his bag for his pen, some post-its, and his black book.

Jean remembers going home last night with a mantra of “fuck fuck fuck holy fuck why did I do that fuck fuck _fuck_ ” running miles around the indefinite circumference of his mind. All throughout his ride back home to Queens, Jean could not stop beating himself up over giving Marco that stupid poem. It wasn’t because he didn’t write it down in the black book before giving it away, and it wasn’t because he felt that it was too personal a piece to let go. His main fear was that it was too much too soon, and unedited, at that. A crime against humanity to give someone an unedited piece of writing, it is.

Despite the poem being short and unintentionally ambiguous in subject, Jean knows that everything he writes has feeling, regardless of if it is projected or embedded. Everything _anyone_ writes has feeling, and whether or not the author intends their emotions to twine themselves around each curved letter in a sentence or not is irrelevant. What matters most is what the reader receives from it––they could easily project or embed their own emotions into a story, a poem, a piece of art. Words are two-way streets: someone gives them meaning, and someone receives that meaning and assigns to it their own feelings to send back. They’re a connection, a bridge to be walked over and met with open hearts and curious minds.

There is a poem by Marie de France that Jean holds dear to his heart and that he has never forgotten: the prologue to her lais. The Prologue and lais immediately following it were written around 1170––originally written in French––and her works have remained in Jean’s heart and guide him in everything he reads, whether for personal enjoyment or for the manuscripts he edits for work. While her intentions in almost all of her works are certainly inspiring and progressive for her time, there is one section in particular of the prologue that strikes Jean every time he reads it. It is translated into something like this: 

 _...The custom among the ancients_ _—  
__as Priscian testifies—  
__was to speak quite obscurely  
__in the books they wrote,  
__so that those who were to come after  
__and study them  
__might gloss the letter  
__and supply its significance from their own wisdom…_  

Jean has a funny relationship with translated works; when poems, stories, or other literatures are translated, we lose a lot of the magic of the original. We lose puns and wordplay, words specific to the language they were written in that can only be loosely translated. The translation, although still beautiful, fails to capture what the first created. There is a magic lost, but a magic gained. Nevertheless, this poem has always stayed with Jean, because even in English, these lines mean something to him.

Those who read the same book never really read the same book: the words are the same, the story is the same, and the characters don’t change, but the experience is individual. Two, three, hundreds of people who read the same book take something away from it that only they can name, can feel; in turn, what they take from the words they also put back. Those feelings they can’t name and those they can are injected into the pages like a vivid memory, so that every time they reopen the cover and turn the page, the memory comes alive again. The more they read the more they notice, and even though those feelings may evolve over time, they still ring true and still matter.

That’s what Jean likes about Marie de France; aside from her goal to write women in power in a time where they didn’t have much of any, she knew how important words were, how important they’ll continue to be long after her death. And she was right. Jean knows the manuscripts he works with that will go on to be published and put into the hands of people all over the world will be different to each of them. What he sees and feels when editing them might be the complete opposite of those of each reader. And that’s the beauty of a glossed text: the application of your own wisdom, your own emotions and own experiences, into a text you love, or dislike, even, is indescribable and incomparable. That is what makes literature so exceptional and wondrous. 

What you take from and what you attach to words—a feeling, a memory, a home—and what you absorb from them allows you to reciprocate, regardless of whether they are positive or negative responses. And for Jean, words are incredibly powerful. Words are communicative, both in feeling and in action. Words were made to illuminate the heart, and Jean’s is blinding.

It is because of this weight that words carry that has Jean worried; he knows where those words in the poems he writes have come from and he knows to whom they’re reaching. What he _doesn’t_ know is how they will affect Marco, what Marco will take away from it, and what he’ll send back. Was giving that to him too much of a gesture when he still barely knows him? Was it overstepping? Should he have waited, or not given it to Marco at all? It’s pointless, he knows; over-thinking and working himself up over something that cannot be taken back is unproductive. Still, it nagged at him all night and continues to nag at him now.

And even though he’s scared, Jean wants to find out.

Decaying rooftops and people with their feet on the ground mock him as his train speeds passed. Dilapidated homes and crumbling streets are a continuously smeared stream of bland color outside of Jean’s train window, and Jean wonders if his words will ever reach them.

No one is sitting beside him, so Jean has room for his arms to move around comfortably. He uncaps his pen, situates the post-it notes on his leg, and begins to write, a poem blossoming and staining his paper. Jean copies the poem into the black book before folding the post-it in a neat little square to put in his pants pocket. Not long after, his train jolts to a stop at Track 19. In a flurry of people stepping off the train and rushing through Penn Station like a school of fish, Jean yawns and makes his way down the musty platform to get to the center of the underground station. At the top of the stairs, people rush around to not miss trains, say goodbye to loved ones, buy their tickets at the last second. They look like ants, constantly moving, constantly working towards something. Jean, refusing to be anything like them, takes his time without being deliberately slow-paced. He walks beneath the tiled ceilings and towards the green mosaic on the far wall in front of him, right next to the McDonald’s and small convenience store next to the 7th Avenue and 34th Street exit. His watch reports that he’s not due at Penguin for another hour, which means he has time for coffee before going to the office.

It’s a beautiful morning in Manhattan: not a cloud in sight, the skies a pale blue and orange hue as the sun stretches its rays and bids good morning to teachers, accountants, editors, bakers. Jean shields his eyes with his hands as they adjust to the light, unable to stifle another yawn. He tightens his grip on his messenger bag, pushes his glasses up higher on his nose, and digs his free hand into his pants pocket before he starts to walk towards the bakery on 23rd. 

The city is always crowded, make no mistake; the time of day has nothing to do with the amount of people traveling the streets of New York City. It’s not called “the city that never sleeps” for nothing, because the people here never _do_ sleep. We are in a constant state of fast-paced, from the beat of our hearts, to the ceaseless race of our pulse that matches the songs of the cars, to the pace of our steps in tandem with the shouts and sirens scattered throughout the streets. From ungodly hours of the morning to the latest night shifts, this city never stops, never sleeps, never has time to catch up.

Jean doesn’t exactly fit this image. Jean is on the quieter side, keeping to and only offering pieces of himself in conversation when necessary. He is not brash laughter and free smiles, nor is he explosive in gesture or open in spoken sentiment. He is reserved in speech and careful in choosing his words, because he knows they mean everything. He is calculated steps and measured thoughts. It is only on paper that everything is free.

Which is why he finds it odd that he loves this city so much. He has none of the qualities these people possess, that this _city_ possesses. It’s a strange chemistry, but it works for Jean. He minds his business, he does what he loves, he writes when he has time, and admires the life around him. It’s an arrangement that satisfies, that he’s appreciative of, and to change it now would be inadvisable. 

As he walks down 7th Avenue, Jean finds it comforting to know that even in a place that wouldn’t normally suit someone like him, he’s glad he has a home in his publishing house in a city as endlessly thriving as Manhattan.

At 23rd Street, Jean turns left to cross over onto 6th Avenue. He makes it to The Flour Patch with thirty minutes left before he’s due at the office, and if he times it just so, he’ll be right on schedule with not a second to spare. He smells the breads and the sweets from the street corner and involuntarily sighs. Stepping up the front steps of the bakery, he opens the door and realizes the feeling that nestled in between his ribcages on his walk over vaguely resembles impatience. Vaguely. 

It’s not very crowded inside: three people are in line and the usual handful of university students are at their tables with laptops open, furiously typing and murdering their keyboards, as they’re known to do. Jean spots Armin at the register; he catches his eye and offers a wave that Armin returns with an armful of bagels for the customer paying. He laughs to himself at the image of small Armin with bagels bigger than the size of his wrists overflowing from his arms and into paper bags. Jean reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, takes out a five dollar bill, and waits in line.

From the back, Jean can hear Marco singing along to the radio overhead and rolls his eyes; always upbeat regardless of time. How Marco of him.

“Good morning, Jean,” Armin waves again and greets Jean when it’s his turn in line, smoothing out the front of his apron on impulse with a smile at the ready. Jean hasn’t even ordered yet, but Armin’s poised to grab what he already knows Jean is going to say. “The usual?”

“Morning. Yes, please. I’m dying.”

Armin laughs and goes about making Jean’s cinnamon coffee and grabbing a fresh croissant. He comes back minutes later with a capped steaming cup and a neatly folded bag of goodness and Jean practically melts. 

“Alrighty, you’re due $3.95 for today.” 

Jean hands Armin the five-dollar bill and huffs, “I can’t believe I have a ‘usual’ already.”

“Don’t be surprised, you practically live here.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Jean asks, “Is that a bad thing?” 

With a shrug and a smirk, Armin crosses his arms. “If it were, you would’ve been kicked out by now.”

Jean supposes that’s true. He takes the change Armin gives him but spots a tip jar next to the register with choppy handwriting that can’t belong to anyone other than Eren. On a post-it note taped to a mason jar, Eren’s writing reads _Tips for the sexy staff!_ crossed out; underneath has the corrected _Tips to keep the specials going!_ Jean is surprised to see ten and twenty dollar bills stuffed into the jar and contributes the rest of his change into it as well. Armin catches this and rolls his eyes with a huff. “I don’t know why you just did that, you come here so often you practically give us all of your money anyway.”

“Yeah, well. You give me free stuff, so…”

“Out of the goodness of our hearts, you assface.” Eren emerges from the kitchen, faint smears of flour across his cheek and forehead. He’s got a playful smirk and leans an arm on Armin’s shoulder, holding out his other in a closed fist in front of Jean.

Jean just stares at it, the gesture all at once unfamiliar and confusing. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“It’s a fist bump, dude.”

“A what.”

Eren loosely shakes his fist as if it’ll jog Jean’s memory. “A fist bump.” Seeing that Jean is still confused, Eren shakes it again, only this time faster in disbelief. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve never had the pleasure of fist bumping someone.”

Jean stares at Eren’s fist, clearly meant for some kind of contact that he’s not sure what to offer. He stares down at his open palm and, still absolutely confused, places it on top of Eren’s closed hand.

All three of them stare at this exchange, Jean still confused, Eren appalled, and Armin staring, unsure what to say.

Armin looks at their hands. “Jean.”

“Armin.”

“Jean.”

“Eren.”

“That’s not...”

“Yeah I figured.”

“You should...”

“Can I take my hand away now?”

“Please do.”

“Right.” Jean retracts his hand from Eren’s fist and stuffs it into his pants pocket, forming a fist of his own in concealed embarrassment.

“Anyway,” Eren drags out, clearly ready to move on, “did you wanna say hi to Marco?”

Jean looks up from his pocket to Eren’s face, always brimming with restless energy, and grins. “Does his excellency have two seconds for a brief morning greeting?”

“You’re the only one he saves it for. Hold on, let me fetch the gingerbread man.” Eren gives Armin a quick peck on the cheek and avoids Armin’s slap to his arm before running in the back to fetch said gingerbread man. Armin, successfully flustered, rubs his cheeks, hoping for the blossom of red to dissipate.

Not five seconds pass before Marco’s head pops out from the doorway of the kitchen, face smeared in flour of inconceivable patterns, similar to and yet more chaotic than Eren’s. “Hey, I know you!”

Jean huffs and waves. “I would hope so.”

Marco’s full body emerges from the kitchen with hands swiping at his smattered apron to rid himself of stray ingredients. “Good morning to you.”

“And also to you.”

Armin, counting the register, chimes in, “It sounds like you’re talking to a priest in church.”

Eren, ever the one to overhear everything, shouts from the kitchen, “Isn’t it ‘And also with you’?” 

“Thank you, agnostic,” Marco shouts back, and his lighthouse-beaming smile guides Jean back to shore. He gestures to the top shelf on the display case directly next to the register designated solely for daily specials and makes jazz hands. “Doughnut for the road?”

Jean holds up his coffee and the paper-bagged croissant. “Nah, I’m all set. Too many breads and I’ll start forming enough rolls to be a pastry myself.”

Marco snorts with laughter, always weak to bakery puns. “That was good. But I’m sure your friends will want some, so here.” Wielding tongs he’s grabbed from the edge of the basket below the case, Marco expertly shakes a paper bag open and gingerly places four homemade glazed doughnuts inside. “This was the latest batch to come out, so they’ll still be hot by the time you get to work.”

“Spoil those two any more and you’ll run out of business,” Jean replies, hesitantly taking the bag from Marco. He makes sure to keep distance between their hands.

“Quite the contrary. They’ve given me much, much more business than others, I’m actually kind of concerned. Take them as a thank you.”

Armin mutters, “Jean might give them a run for their money pretty soon.”

Jean sticks out his tongue at him and steals a glance at his watch. He hears something fall in Marco’s tone as his shoulders settle back down to their normal state as Marco asks, “Need to go?"

“Yeah, I have two knuckleheads that need tending to and author meetings to sit in on. I’ll come back later, then?” 

“You always do,” Eren gives him a half-wave from the kitchen doorway, loudly singing along to _Riptide_ by Vance Joy at unholy octaves. Jean raises his eyebrow to Armin in question of this singing and Armin just shakes his head in a silent “Don’t ask.” He accepts this answer, because really, there isn’t any explanation; Jean’s just surprised customers haven’t run from the bakery at the shrill noise coming from Eren’s mouth.

The bakery’s front door bells chime at the sound of incoming customers, so Jean lifts his coffee in thanks and bids Armin and Marco farewell.

Jean allows facts of “usual” settle in his mind like sediment on the ocean floor. Cinnamon warms his tongue from a sip of his coffee, and Jean sees that Armin wrote a note on his cup: _Kick some grammar ass today._

He heads to the subway with a simmering contentment and boards the train to Penguin, where manuscripts await and best friends need attention (and doughnuts).

 

* * *

 

Sasha’s morning starts out with a cinnamon bun that’s too cold and iced coffee that’s too warm. She would complain because it’s not from the trio’s favorite bakery, but she knows Connie walked three blocks just to get them breakfast before work, and that alone is worth savoring. Especially since she’s the one who literally kicked him out of bed to go get it. The things Connie does in the name of love.

Predictably, Sasha gets crumbs all over the table, has icing all over her face, and her hair is the epitome of “messy bun”; rumpled pajamas and sleep-crazy hair complete the 6 AM look. Connie is face-down across from her, cheek smushed into the dark wood of their round kitchen table and yawning next to his mug of hot chocolate with his hands dangling towards the floor. As soon as he came back from the bakery, he rid himself of his shirt and jeans to be free once more, which explains his half-naked passed-out state. Sasha watches him through half-open eyes as she slowly chews herself awake.

There’s a lot to do today for both of them: Connie has three book covers to work on, one of which has no concept, the second of which has some vague sketching marked up, and the third of which he has...absolutely no idea what to do with. The designs for the third one just haven’t been coming out right; he can’t get the colors to cooperate, the fonts he chooses for potential layouts don’t match the book, and everything he tries just doesn’t _fit_. On top of the pitch he and Sasha have to do together later, Connie’s schedule is pretty full. On Sasha’s end, she has to prepare the proposal for their meeting later on the superman novel to pitch to sales, but her schedule is pushed back a little because the third book cover Connie has been struggling with is also on Sasha’s pitch list. She’s been giving him ideas and vague suggestions for him to try and work with, but he’s rejected them because they didn’t “feel like the book.” In the meantime, Sasha’s made some calls and arranged her meetings and marketing events to allow Connie to have an extended deadline to work his magic. For today, it’s just two pitches and one other meeting with her department to sort out budgets.

Sasha huffs a laugh to herself at the image of Connie in front of her, near drooling on their kitchen table with a red nose pressed against the side of his cup. Work Connie™ and Home Connie™ are two very different people: Work Connie™ is actually quite serious and quite silent in his suit and tennis shoes. In the office, Connie, very, very much like Jean, blocks out everything that isn’t necessary to the task at hand. “Tunnel vision” doesn’t even begin to describe his level of focus: once his butt hits his desk chair and the Mac monitor is booted up, you can’t get through to him unless the building is on fire, but Sasha doubts that theory. Connie loves what he does and puts everything he has into making sure the book covers he designs not only make him and the author and the sales team happy, but future readers, too. In the end, the readers are going to be the ones who are going to see his book cover on library shelves and bookstore tables and keep them in their own homes. With this in mind, Connie has never created art for a book he wasn’t proud of: it was his art, yes, but books belonged to everyone. If the stories held places in the hearts of readers, his art should, too. The readers are the ones that matter most, and Jean was the person to teach him that.

“No matter what any department head or supervisor or coworker tells you,” Jean had said, “create for your job and create for yourself, but most importantly, create for the readers. They’re the ones who will hold onto these books for years and years. They’re the ones who will stay up late to turn the page and take the book jacket off the hardcovers to prevent any damage to it. Your art will be printed and saved in your computer as a bunch of PDF files, but the readers will see that cover more than you ever will. Love what you do, but remember who you’re doing this for. It will always be the readers.”

It was the longest and most heartfelt speech he had ever spoken aloud to Connie, and if they didn’t realize Sasha overhead from behind Connie’s cubicle, well, that can just stay with her, then.

Since that conversation, Sasha has seen Work Connie™ make beautiful things and be happier because of it. She’s seen him wake up early and stay late. She’s seen him work longer hours than was physically allowed and she’s seen him at his desk at home with a pair of glasses on, working on his Mac monitor to fix minor details and play with a ridiculous amount of layers. Sasha’s proud of her boy, and she knows that despite the small rut he’s in now, he’ll overcome it and make something phenomenal. He always does. 

Finishing off the remainders of her cinnamon bun, Sasha listens to Connie’s sleepful wheezing and licks her fingers free of icing.

She remembers when he was first appointed to the design department for book covers, all determination to get started as soon as possible and looking like the biggest dork she’s ever seen in a suit and sneakers. It was charming though, in its own way.

She remembers one of their earliest conversations, before they were really friends, let alone together; just college interns hoping to land a job upstairs.

“Do you like it here?” he’d asked her in the middle of a tour of the third floor.

She was a bit hesitant in her answer because even though they were new, she already had a good feeling. “So far, yeah. The people are all hella great and the break room snacks are top shelf.”

Connie had looked away then, either nodding in agreement or just to himself. He followed up with, “Are you ever afraid?”

Sasha didn’t know how to answer this—she was afraid of a lot of things, like bleu cheese and heels that are too high and American politics. She was afraid of many things, but she didn’t think Connie was asking about any of them.

So she asked him, “About what?” for clarification, and he clarified.

“Failing. Here, I mean. Failing here.”

“Yes,” she had answered without thinking, and it was true. She was.

Wiggling her toes on the edge of her kitchen chair, Sasha thinks it’s kind of funny to think about now, in a not-very-laughable way. She thinks it’s kind of funny because she’s never found someone more talented at Connie’s job than Connie, or found someone who loved Connie’s job as much as Connie does. His fears have value to them, but Sasha knows now that that’s exactly what motivates him. 

Home Connie™ is the exact opposite of Work Connie™ in that his attention is everywhere and anywhere for split seconds at a time. They’ll be watching a movie or cooking dinner and Connie will get up, walk around, get a glass of water, pee, and do everything short of several jumping jacks all within a span of ten minutes. It takes everything in him to sit through a TV show, and if he’s not playing with Sasha’s fingers, he’s bouncing his leg. He makes for a fantastic cleaner: vacuuming keeps him moving, and after he slid across the floor in boxers and belted out _Rent_ songs at the top of his lungs that one time, it became his permanent household chore. Sasha doesn’t mind his energy though; she’s kind of the same way. 

But he always makes sure to help around, even if Sasha doesn’t ask for it. He’ll cook dinner the first half of the week, and Sasha will either cook the later half or order in if they’re not with Jean for the evening. Connie will vacuum, and Sasha will take care of the laundry. Connie will clean the bathroom, and Sasha will put their clothes away and wash the windows. They have equal give and take, never needing to tell the other what to do or when and why. There’s this type of conversation that isn’t really a conversation at all: a look, a gesture, a small touch will tell them everything they ever needed to know. They just work. 

Sasha leans across the kitchen table and sticks her finger into Connie’s hot chocolate. She holds it over him until a drop falls from her fingertip and onto his nose. He wakes up with a start, nearly knocking over his cup, and frantically wipes at his nose. 

“Sash! Whadja do that for?!”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s because we have something to do called work today? But I’m not too sure, you’ll have to ask your girlfriend.”

Connie turns his head to look into the living room, then the rest of the kitchen, and even goes so far as to stand up halfway and peer into their bedroom. “Girlfriend? Oh girlfriend!” he calls. “Huh, can’t seem to find her anywhere. Oh right! She doesn’t exist.” 

“Hey!” Sasha sticks her cold feet onto Connie’s bare thigh and he laughs, jerking his leg away from her icy touch.

After Connie has returned to the land of the living, he chugs his hot chocolate, curses about the temperature, even though he knew it was hot (“ _Hot_ chocolate, Con. _Hot”_ ) and mimics Wonder Woman’s pose on the tiled floor of their kitchen. “Now that my throat has been thoroughly scorched, it’s time to rock and roll.” 

“We can’t leave yet,” Sasha mumbles around her warm iced coffee.

“Why not?”

“Well, dear, unless you feel like pitching with me to the sales department in your boxers, I don’t think we can go just yet.”

“Fair enough,” Connie admits, and goes to put on his famous suit and sneakers. 

Sasha finishes her non-iced iced coffee (without scorching her throat) and heads into their room to shower and get ready for the day.

Standing in the middle of the doorway, Sasha watches Connie sift through his side of the closet until he finds his pants. She tackles Connie onto the bed while he’s got one leg into his pants and peppers his face in kisses. Connie yelps at the impact, falling back with her on the bed and blowing raspberries on her cheeks and tickling her sides. 

Sasha knows Connie is still afraid, but she’s sure in her belief that the fear is diminishing. She kisses him one more time before slapping his butt and running to the shower.

 

* * *

 

Connie and Sasha always get to Penguin before Jean, and it’s not just because they live in the city (it’s mostly because they live in the city). Jean’s longer commute and frequent stops to The Flour Patch let him get to the office just in time to start the day, while Connie and Sasha only need about twenty minutes to reach Penguin. They’re allotted more time to sleep, but little time to make bakery stops, unless they’re Really Dedicated and decide to get up in the morning (this is a very, very rare occurrence for obvious reasons). Why get up when Jean can just bring you pastries instead? While Sasha and Connie do love to see the bakery staff, sleep is just too valuable to waste. 

So, when Jean drops a bag of still-warm doughnuts on the break room table in front of Thing One and Thing Two, angels sing from the heavens and Connie’s sure he can hear a godly choir harmonizing.

“ _My_ man, coming in clutch!” Connie digs through the bag with savage intent to grab a doughnut while Sasha fights him to be first.

Jean washes his hands in the sink and says over his shoulder, “Never say that again.”

“Oo cah teh me wha to do,” is Connie’s jumbled response around a full mouth. The doughnut is perfect: glaze not too thick, but just enough flavor to have a hint of lemon and sticking to their fingers. It’s moist and light, so good to sink your teeth into. Sasha is so happy that she can’t talk, and Jean thinks he sees a single tear fall down her cheek, but it could just be a trick of the light.

There is too much to do and not enough time to do it, so Jean offers a wave and carries the rest of his cinnamon coffee to his desk to start on his agenda for the day. “See you later, buffoons.”

“Oh, Jean!” Connie spins in his chair and swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s your turn to pick lunch today, so let us know what you wanna do. Sash and I have a sales pitch together right beforehand, and don’t forget me and you have another one later this week.” 

“Which pitch you guys have today?”

“The Superman protag one. Loves saving everyone, can’t save himself, slowly dying. Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about. The one Con designed with the pill bottles wearing a cape?”

“ _Yes._ Nice, I was wondering when that would start going out. Lemme know how it goes with Mr. Commander.”

Sasha laughs in between licking her iced fingertips. “He loves when we pitch, probably because we almost set the conference room on fire two years ago. Lord knows how we got out of _that_ one, but I think he finds us amusing. Anyway, just wait for us in my office when you’re done and we’ll go.”

“How you guys almost managed to do that for a fucking _novel_ pitch I’ll never understand. I’ll see you idiots later. And please use a napkin, guys.”

Sasha gave a half-assed salute and shoved Connie aside for the next doughnut. “Never!”

 

* * *

 

Jean leans back on his desk chair and takes his glasses off to rub his eyes. Hundreds of papers litter his desk, half unmarked and half with innumerable red scratchings, circles, question marks, and various crossing-out indications to remove passages. So far for this manuscript, he’s marked out three whole chapters to remove, half of the seventh, and can’t even begin to count how many misuses of the oxford comma, which was the most painful of all. No one disrespects the oxford comma on Jean Kirschtein’s watch. 

From a pocket inside of his bag, Jean’s phone rings with the signal of a text message. He leans down to pull it out and sees Sasha has messaged him.

 _From: Sasha  
__waddup nerd we’re gonna be done in liiiike 10 minutes.  
__connie’s wrappin up his speech and we’ll see what commander has to say after qs.  
__be in my office when we get there. that’s a direct order young man!!!!!_  

Jean rolls his eyes but smiles, typing out a quick reply back.

 _To: Sasha  
__You’re not my superior, I only take orders from those who matter, sorry.  
__I’m finishing this last chapter and I’ll head right over.  
__Tell Connie no fires for a “wow” factor._  

Jean decides on their spot for lunch today: it’s a small place down the block that they don’t go to often, wedged in between a clothing store and an urgent care. When Jean finishes the last page of the chapter he was editing, he puts his things away and grabs his bag to head upstairs and fetch his best friends.

Later, when the infamous Penguin Trio have gathered together in Sasha’s office to head to lunch, they decide to save talking about the pitch until they’ve sat down with food. Thankfully, the only thing Jean allows Thing One and Thing Two to report to him about the meeting was a status on the conference room; they tell him it remains fire-free for another day.

 

* * *

 

“You should’ve seen his _face_ dude, it was like Superman came flyin’ outta the illustration to personally greet Erwin Smith himself,” says Sasha with such enthusiasm that a french fry launches itself across the table. 

Connie picks up the fry off of Jean’s shirt sleeve and bites it in half. “Yeah, and Levi _definitely_ loved that literary symbolism crap you guys in editing die for.” 

“Hey hey, it’s not _crap_. That’s like saying you illustrating on the wrong layer in photoshop is a blessing.” Jean dusts off his shirt sleeve where the fry had been and watches Connie eat the rest of it before Connie points a warning finger in his direction.

“You cut that out. Shit’s a nightmare, it took me three whole days to fix that last time!”

The trio are in Seaport Deli, a heavenly little place several blocks from Penguin HQ that is a true gift from the gods themselves. They don’t eat here often because each sandwich alone costs around eleven dollars, but the unanimous opinion confirms how worth it they are; each one is stacked so high and so full that they all know they’ll only be able to eat half of it. Sasha always makes it a point to laugh at their respective orders, which are the same every time they eat here: Jean gets “The Ward Melville,” “The Gasm” for Sasha, and Connie eats “The Fink-A-Rooney.” She thinks the names of their favorite sandwiches are reflective of their personalities— _“A kind of mirroring through food, if you will”_ _—_ and neither Jean nor Connie are inclined to disagree. With a huge plate of bacon-cheese fries for the table and the rest of their food, the three of them sit at a table towards the back and dig in.

“Okay so,” Jean says after swallowing a heavenly mouthful, “tell me how it went. And then Connie, we need to go over what we’re pitching later this week, too.” 

“Oh actually, about that.” Connie unwraps his sandwich with such fervor that Jean is nearly convinced Connie hasn’t eaten in weeks. “I need to show you what the team’s suggestions for it so far have been, but that’s back at the office. I have to hang back for a bit to speak to one of the other project managers, but I transferred the files and comments to my personal laptop. I don’t have to stay behind more than, like, fifteen minutes, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. How’s about we go over it at the bakery tonight before they close? Grab some snacks and see Mr. Gingerbread Man while we plan our funeral.”

Jean thinks about Thing One and Thing Two being in the same room as Marco, Eren, and Armin, and doesn’t know how to feel about it, even though it’s happened countless times without him. He expects there will be minor chaos––talking about work is never entirely a smooth process––but he reasons it can’t hurt. Doing work in one of his favorite places with people he is comfortable around isn’t a bad thing. After thinking about it for a minute over a bite of sandwich, Jean agrees. “Sure, that’s fine. Sash you want in?" 

Sasha hums at the offer and shrugs. “Yeah, why not. I might have to sit in on your pitch meeting anyway, so it’ll be good to familiarize myself with it as much as possible beforehand. Plus it wouldn’t hurt for you both to have some extra support from the best marketer in the company.”

Connie puts his food down to clap his hands around Sasha’s face and plants a loud kiss to her cheek. “I love it when you’re right.”

Sasha dramatically flips her ponytail and grins. “Why thank you. Now that that’s established, you want to hear about our afternoon persuasions or not, Mr. Editor?”

“Yes please,” Jean mumbles around his sandwich.

Sasha picks up a gooey cheese fry and drops it in her mouth. “No fires, for one, so it was a good start. We let the panel see the illustration first so they could soak it in before Connie launched into his speech, and before he could talk one of the PR people immediately commented on the colors. She loved that he didn’t stick with that normal blue-and-red-only center scheme. You should’ve seen Connie’s face, oh man.” Sasha paused for a bite of her sandwich but didn’t wait to swallow before she continued. “Font is mostly a go, colors are a go, but some minor additions need to be added that we haven’t figured out yet, but we’ll talk about that later.” She swallows and puts her sandwich down for more french fries. “Some irrelevant intern totally messed up our mojo for a bit towards the end and asked ridiculous questions, probably to put Connie on the spot to get some brownie points or some shit, but he shut her down so fast. It was beautiful.”

Connie shifts his sandwich to one hand and holds the other up for his girlfriend to high-five, which she does. With a wind of enthusiasm, Connie puts the food down and leans forward on the table with mild urgency. “Thank you! For real though, why do they even let them sit in on meetings like that anyway? Like, okay, I get the experience and I get the basic point of it, but come _on_ . Who let her ask questions, is that even allowed? We weren’t allowed to when _we_ were interns.”

Jean raises his eyebrows and takes another bite. “What’d she ask?”

“Something like,” Connie looks to Sasha for clarification, “‘isn’t that too strong of an image for a young-adult cover?’ And then she did the _worst_ thing and said something about it being too ‘mature’ for teen readers and that it wouldn’t sell if we used this as the cover. Right, babe?”

Sasha nods her head and dives for another fry, scooping up bacon bits with dripping melted cheese. “Mhmm. If I didn’t know about the novel I might’ve been inclined to see her point a bit more, but I do know the novel and I do know what Connie was going for with the artwork for it. She really dug her own grave with that last one though, jeez. Commander shut her up though.”

“Oh? I thought Connie did?"

“Well,” Connie wipes his mouth with a napkin and sips at his peach iced tea. “She spoke up and the room went kind of quiet because I don’t think anyone really expected her to speak, because the interns _never_ speak in those meetings. They kind of can’t, yanno? They’re just interns sitting there to watch, like we used to do. Learning experience, taking notes, all that jazz. But after she spoke we all sat hella awkward for a little while. I got pissed an told her that if she was up-to-date on the most recent and most popular YA novels, she’d notice that mental illness and illness in general are major themes to raise awareness of in teens and in fiction.” 

Connie goes quiet for a second, but neither Sasha nor Jean move to interrupt his train of thought and wait patiently for him to continue. “This genre has a specific demographic that’s been ignored for too long, and now that it’s finally growing at such a fast pace, a lot of things are being explored in these books. You know this, Jean, and you too, Sash, but mental illness and all types of ‘abnormal’ traits in characters are being written about, which is fucking amazing, if you think about it. Especially knowing that the stigma surrounding it has had wicked backlash over the years. We’ve got the platform now, though, and it needs to be used. The more diversity and awareness the better, yeah?”

Sasha jumps in to add, “I think she just thought that it would be another martyr trope about some sad man who’s unstable and wants to make a difference. I don’t think she considered the depth of what it meant to the characters within the novel and to the readers who will read it. Honestly, it was a pretty stupid move on her part, because asking a question like that without even reading the manuscript is a bit too bold with no basis for being so.” Sasha dismissively waves her hand and shrugs. “To second-guess the artwork of a superior and in a department solely focused on young-adult novels where we know the demographic and know not just what’s popular, but also what’s needed, was a shit move. Plus it just makes her look like a fucking idiot.”

Jean nods his head and wipes some stray mayonnaise from the side of his mouth with his thumb and licks it clean. “Definitely. She probably should’ve kept her mouth shut. Ah these interns, growing bolder and more oblivious by the day. What did Smith say?”

“He agreed with Connie.” Sasha sinks her teeth into another bite of her sandwich and lets her boyfriend continue. 

“He said that I was right: that, if she had read at least the overview of the novel and the general summary––that you still need to edit, Jean, don’t forget––she would know the true meaning of the artwork for the cover jacket. Commander gave me a sick shout-out too, something about, oh, I don’t know, _being one of the best artists in the department_. She totally shut up after that and he thanked us for the presentation.” 

Jean sighs in relief, always proud of Mr. Smith’s good judgement. “So? Is sales going to pick it up?”

Sasha sets her sandwich down and shares a snickering look with Connie. They both raise their hands over the table in a request for high-fives from Jean and say in unison, “You fucking _bet_ they are!” 

“Nice!” The three high-five and laugh at the people at the table next to them giving them weird looks. Jean steals a fry with lots of bacon on it and smiles around the cheese. “That’s awesome. Are there any more revisions that need to be made to the art or manuscript that you know of? I know I finished it already, but if there need to be some changes, I can see about getting it back to work on more.”

Connie crumples up his napkin and shoots it towards the nearest trash can and misses with a groan. While he bends to pick it up and throw it away properly, he replies, “Just a few additions to some of the background and minor changes to the font on my part. I might have to redo just a little piece of the shading and a bit of the formatting for text because it’s not really sitting right with me, but other than that I think it’s good. If you could just look over that jacket summary for the inside of the book and the rest of the cover text I’d love you forever.”

“I thought you already do?” Jean smirks and finishes off the first half of the sandwich, too full to eat the other half, like they all knew they would be. He starts to pack it up so it stays in one piece.

With ridiculous finger-guns and an exaggerated wink, Connie clicks his tongue. “You know it, Mr. Prose.”

 

* * *

 

Back at the bakery, Eren completes three cake orders that he leaves at Armin’s station for Armin to pipe the details onto. Marco churns out another batch of doughnuts and a tray of elephant ear cookies purely for the sake of getting something else into the display cases. He leaves the doughnuts on the racks to cool down before they need to be glazed, and in the meantime, shapes the elephant ear dough and brushes them with egg wash to brown in the oven.

It’s been a steady day: the doughnuts proved to be in high demand, so Marco quite literally has had his hands full of them. More than once Marco’s had to lick icing off his forearms and Armin has dusted away stray sugar crystals from his eyebrows five times already. Despite the mess, there are no complaints; it’s a delicious—albeit messy—price to pay for doughnuts.

The front of the bakery is just as upbeat as the kitchen: Armin’s control of the counter during the day can only be described as “frazzled grace,” so Eren has been sneaking up to the front to help when Marco is able to handle the kitchen duties by himself for a little while. Eren and Armin have been switching between stations at intervals—when it’s quiet and Eren can afford to be left alone, Armin sneaks back to decorate the three cake orders they received in the morning. Thankfully, two of them don’t require intricate designs; one is a birthday cake and the other is for a retirement party, so they just require basic piping and decoration. The third cake is for a small wedding, only three tiers, but the details need to be a bit more refined than what the other two required. Armin’s had to make light blue fondant, two types of piping icing, and pulled out all of the glitter supplies from the decoration pantry in the closet for this cake. The bride wants it to be, as she so delicately put it, “as shining and sparkly as she’ll be on her big day.” Armin hasn’t had that much experience with glitter adornments on a cake before, but after some quick YouTube tutorials on how to make fondant roses and the appropriate tools for brush embroidery, Armin finishes in just two hours. The end result is a stunning cake with precise and clean piping decorations, glitter, and variously-colored painted roses. Just a little after Armin’s completed the cake, the customers come to pick it up and are thrilled with the outcome, leaving Armin feeling accomplished and proud. He resumes his place at the cash register and Eren quickly kisses his cheek in congratulations and heads to the kitchen to help Marco.

As the sun begins its descent for the night and the amount of traffic in the bakery thins, Marco makes a mental note to round up Eren and Armin before they head home for work to discuss his ideas for some improvements. To all three of the bakers’ realizations, the amount of customers is only growing, and while it’s a welcome revelation, it brings about some worry. More business means faster paces and more work to be done, and Marco isn’t sure that three people is as efficient as it once was.

By five o’clock, the crew has some breathing room from the hectic morning and early afternoon; the doughnuts were a hit, flying off the shelves almost faster than Marco could set them in their display case. Marvelous as it is, it’s a lot of elbow grease and repetition for one person. Eren jumping in during the intervals where he was in the kitchen with Marco were an enormous help, but growing fatigue is hard to combat. Marco’s thankful for the slow pace of customers for the time being and sits down in the break room by himself for a quick fifteen minutes to give his arms a rest. Armin had jokingly told him he’d relinquish his couch for Marco’s break, and Marco had only bowed and said, “Thank you, your majesty. I’ll make sure your throne is sparkling clean when I’m done with it.” He ignored Armin’s retort of “It better be.”

Marco landed on the couch on his back with a huff, draping an arm over his eyes and dangling his legs over the arm of the couch under his ankles. His feet hurt and he’s pretty sure that’s a pinched nerve in his left shoulder blade, but for right now he just wants to close his eyes and allow himself a few minutes to relax. Marco sets his phone alarm to go off at a quarter past five and hides his face in the throw pillow, asleep in record time.

 

* * *

 

In Jean’s ribs, there is not a cage and there are no butterflies. There is no metaphor, no simile, no comparing this not-fluttering and indescribable uplifting yet sinking anomaly. It’s not something he is used to; he knows it, dare calls it an unfriendly acquaintance, but is not familiar with it enough to know how to name it. So he doesn’t in the hopes that it reads his cues and leaves. 

“Are you comin’, Jean?”

Connie and Sasha are walking in front of him. He sees them from somewhere not inside his own body—Connie in his stupid cross trainers, hands in his pockets and looking over his left shoulder, and Sasha carrying her briefcase, free hand on her hip as she looks over her right shoulder. They’re waiting for him to catch up. They didn’t see him cross the street at their heels and stop as they stood on the corner of 6th Avenue. They continued to walk, but Jean stood still on the corner and watched the light from inside The Flour Patch spill out onto the sidewalk like liquid gold. The shadows of several people sitting at the window bar interrupt the smooth beams, but it adds character, a uniqueness to the bakery’s shadow like a painting. From what Jean can make out of inside at this angle, Jean sees most of the chairs are empty; an abandoned plate full of crumbs sits in solitude at an empty table next to a mug with a plum lipstick stain. Jean wishes he were a photographer.

“Are you comin’, Jean?”

Jean hears Connie again. Or for the first time. He returns to where he is and feels a pebble under his right shoe digging into the sole of his foot. Jean uses that to remind him of where he is, with who, and why. He uses it to remind him: in for seven, out for five. Repeat. 

“Yeah, right behind you.”

Sasha smiles back at him and Connie grasps the silver rod of the front door to the bakery and pulls it open. 

Cinnamon, lemon glaze, sugar, bread, and coffee greet Jean like long-lost friends and invite him in. Sasha and Connie make a beeline for the counter, but Jean’s first glance is to the kitchen doorway. He hears the clank of metal, the hiss of the ovens, a curse word or two that doesn’t come from Marco. He looks to his left, right at the bookcase. The copy of Robert Browning’s complete works is on the bottom shelf tucked in the right corner, right where Jean had left it. His favorite chair is empty, and so is the coffee table and sofa right across from it. He’s quick to claim the section of the bakery and sets his things down to wait for Thing One and Thing Two to reappear with what he’s sure is going to be an absolute mountain of pastries.

“A mountain” is an understatement, and Jean can’t decide if it’s an unfortunate one to make or not. Connie is balancing three plates in his hands holding two giant chocolate chip cookies, two glazed doughnuts, a cheese danish, and four rainbow cookies. Sasha, too, is carrying two giant sugar cookies, two glazed doughnuts, a napoleon, and three creampuffs. Jean rubs his temple with his fingers, feeling a headache forming at the mere sight of so much sugar about to be consumed by his best friends. “Are you serious?”

“What?” Sasha falls back into her chair, barely keeping all of her treats on their respective plates and miraculously succeeding. “Jealous, Kirschtein?”

“Far from it. Have fun not going to bed ‘til five in the morning.”

“With pleasure,” Connie retorts before biting into one of the doughnuts. Jean watches as Connie’s eyes roll back and rolls his own eyes at the disgusting moan Connie emits. “Oh my god. Oh my _god._ Babe. Please, if you love yourself, and if you love me, eat the doughnut first, holy fuck. So much better than this morning.”

Sasha, ever one for a challenge, digs into the doughnut with barely-contained anticipation and follows in Connie’s blissful footsteps to pastry heaven. After they’ve both devoured their doughnuts in impressive seconds, they stare at Jean and each shove a doughnut at him. “Eat it,” they say together, and Jean can’t help but laugh.

“Sorry about the wait! I bring more sugar.” Armin approaches their little corner holding two steaming ceramic mugs the size of soup bowls. He places them in front of Connie and Sasha and gives Jean an apologetic smile. “I feel for you, Jean.”

Puzzled, Jean raises an eyebrow in question and gives a half wave. “Hello to you, too. Feel for me, what, exactly?” 

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Armin takes one look at the pile of pastries in front of Sasha and Connie and shakes his head. “They’re not sleeping tonight and I’m ninety-percent positive it’s you who’s going to have to deal with them. For that, I’m sorry.”

Jean just smiles and shrugs. “That’s okay. I’ve dealt with Connie drinking three Red Bulls at and two five-hour energies in the span of ten seconds. I’m really not sure how he’s still alive, but if I could deal with that, I can deal with anything.”

“You’re a saint.” Armin laughs and tucks some loose strands of hair back behind his ear, watching the two with fondness. “Marco’s just taking a quick nap, but when he gets up I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Okay. I’ll follow you up there, I’m gonna get some coffee.”

“No need,” Armin assures Jean, and he begins to walk backwards towards the counter. “Your usual?” Jean gives a small smile and a nod. “You got it, comin’ right up.”

When Jean turns back to his best friends, the plates are almost empty and the crime scene only worsens. Connie’s tie and lap are absolutely covered in crumbs and there’s a darkened stain on his knee from a dollop of whipped cream that fell from the lip of his mug. Sasha’s clothes are so far unscathed, but her face is its own crime scene: smears of sugar crystals cling to her cheeks, glaze from the doughnuts gather at the corners of her mouth, and the tip of her nose comes away from her hot chocolate mug covered in whipped cream. Jean makes a mental note to never take them anywhere ever again and sighs, getting up from his chair to fetch some napkins. 

He winds up at the counter after grabbing some napkins from a nearby table to wait for his coffee. The five-dollar bill in his pocket—ever at the ready for whenever Jean needs it—crinkles in Jean’s hand when he takes it out. He sets the napkins on the counter and slowly tries to smooth out the bill while he waits. Overhead, the speakers play _Banana Pancakes_ by Jack Johnson and Jean taps his fingers to the beat, watching as Armin’s ponytail bobs as he moves. The smell of cinnamon grows stronger than it was when Jean first walked in, and he feels his shoulders relieve some of their tension.

Armin doesn’t even need to tell Jean how much his drink is; Jean just hands him the bill and sticks the remaining change in the tip jar, the exchange routine. Jean grabs his drink, raises it in thanks towards Armin, and heads back to where his friends await.

After Connie and Sasha take a few minutes to let their bodies process the unholy amounts of pastry they’ve consumed, Connie and Jean pull out their laptops to get started. Sasha opens her briefcase for the notes that her assistant took during their pitch earlier, and the three of them stack the empty plates to make room. Jean carries what’s left of the crime scene up to the counter and flags Armin’s attention. “Figured I’d save you some time,” he explains, and Armin gratefully takes the plates and brings them to the kitchen. 

Back in his seat, Jean walks in on Sasha pointing from her notes to Connie’s computer screen, gesturing animatedly about where her assistant commented on the shading in Connie’s illustration. “It’s too dark Con, she was right. Look, you can barely read the text in this corner. And the color doesn’t match the one you used for the text on the inside of the jacket cover. Jean, come look at this and tell me I’m right.” 

Jean leans across the coffee table to peer over the side of Connie’s tilted laptop. Connie pulls up both the front and inside designs of the book jacket design and overlaps them so the inside flap designs are next to the cover. Upon closer inspection, Jean finds that Sasha (and her assistant) are, indeed, correct, and the font colors aren’t the same shade. Jean looks to Connie, genuinely apologetic, lips pressed together and a shrug lifting his shoulders. “Sorry bud, Sash is right on this one.” 

Connie groans and leans his head back to rest on the top of his chair. “Oh come _on._ ”

“It’s true! Look,” Sasha insists, knocking her knee with Connie’s. Connie sits up and turns his attention back to his laptop screen. “On the bottom, the shading is curved so the bottom edge of the jacket is all one color, but then it forms an oval around the protagonist’s feet to make it look like a spotlight is on him.” 

Jean politely interjects, tracing his index finger from the top of the left inner jacket flap from top to bottom. “It starts at the top here and gets darker as it goes down; it’s the same effect and base color. But the filler text here isn’t the same color as the font on the cover. I’ll finish the proof for that now so we can type it in and see how it fits or if we have to shorten it, but the colors needs to match. Or if you want some other effect, make it a shade or two darker, but not too dark so that it can’t be read.”

“Yeah yeah, I see it,” Connie acquiesces. “Pissed I didn’t catch it, but I see it, you’re right. Sash, tell your assistant I said thanks for catching it.”

Sasha smiles, proud of her coworker, and kisses Connie’s head in consolation. “Will do,” she promises. 

From this point forward, the trio become entirely focused. Connie gives Jean a printed version of a very loose template of how the jacket flaps will look in actual size; they have a lined text box to show how the description will be formatted, which gives Jean a better idea of how much to write and how the finished product will look. Jean opens his messenger bag to fetch his laptop and opens a Word document containing the draft for the book description he had written. He sets to work revising. 

At a quarter past five, Marco’s phone alarm goes off and he jolts awake on Armin’s couch. Scrambling to shut it, Marco falls halfway off the sofa and slams his hand on his phone screen, silencing the alarm and trying to steady himself so he doesn’t fall completely. “Jesus,” he murmurs, and grants himself a few more minutes to steady his pulse. When he’s confident his legs will fully support him, Marco gets off the couch and stretches. His arms pop in strange places and he rolls his head to get the crick out of his neck that formed from the odd angle he wound up in. From the break room, Marco notices he doesn’t hear much noise aside from the music playing, and he’s thankful he didn’t miss too much during his brief nap.

When he walks into the kitchen, Marco finds Eren elbow-deep in bread dough. “Mornin’ sleepyhead,” Eren greets him, and nods in Marco’s direction.

“Mmmm,” is Marco’s drowsy response, and he rubs at his right eye as he walks over to Eren’s station. “Watcha makin’?”

“Just a small batch of bagels. We ran out a little earlier; I didn’t want to make too much, but I figured there should be a few in the basket, so I’m makin’ about a dozen.”

Marco claps a hand on Eren’s shoulder. “Good thinking, young grasshopper. I’ve taught you well.” 

“Why thank you, Master.”

“Sleeping beauty awakens.” Armin’s head pops into the doorway and he waves. “You didn’t miss much. It’s kind of empty right now.” Armin ducks away, moving to go back to the cash register, but jumps back. “Oh, and Jean’s here with the other two.”

“Jean?”

“Yeah.” Armin points to the seats Marco already knows they’re in. “They’re sitting by the bookcase. Want to say hi?” 

“Uhm,” Marco thinks. “Yeah, give me one sec. I need to look like I _didn’t_ just wake up.”

Armin laughs and nods his head in agreement. “You do that,” he adds, and disappears back to the counter. 

“Go run a hand through your hair or somethin’,” Eren chimes in, and smirks when Marco pouts at him. 

“Hush.”

“What? I’m just tellin’ it like I see it. Plus I don’t think you want to go say hi when one side of your hair is matted to your skull and the other is sticking up in every single direction imaginable.” 

 _“What?”_ Marco runs to the bathroom next to where the break room is and flips the light on. Eren’s right: the hair on the side of his head Marco fell asleep on lays flat while the other side has curls protruding at comical intervals. Marco groans in frustration and soaks his hands under the tap of the sink, combing through his curls with wet fingers to try and tame them. He shakes the towel over his head when he finishes and parts it in the hopes that it dries how he wants it to.

When he comes back to the kitchen, Eren’s slipping the bagels into the oven to bake and gives a thumbs up at Marco’s fixed style. “Much better. Now you don’t look homeless.”

“Gee thanks,” Marco sighs, and leans his back against the metal countertop. “I guess I should wait for it to dry before going to say hello.”

Eren’s voice echoes inside the oven as he slips the second tray in. “That would be a marvelous idea.” 

As Marco’s hair settles back to normal and the remnants of sleep are put at bay until it’s time to close, Marco helps Eren clean up the stations that won’t be used until tomorrow. Armin’s station is wiped down and any leftover ingredients and tools are put back into their spots into the pantry and their respective drawers. The pantry itself is swept and swiffered, Eren’s station is mostly clean, and Marco’s is left for when they close up in case any last-minute things need to be prepared.

Marco moves to head out front but remembers the mental note he made for himself earlier in the day and turns around. “Eren, before I forget.”

Eren looks up from the broom handle and tilts his head to the side. “What’s up?”

“After we clean tonight, can you and Armin hang back for a few minutes? I wanna talk something over before deciding anything.”

Puzzled, Eren replies, “Of course. I’ll tell Armin when it’s time to clean the front.”

“You’re an angel, thank you,” Marco says, before slipping behind the counter and patting Armin on the back.

“Don’t I know it,” Eren calls after him, and resumes sweeping the kitchen.

Marco takes a quick look around the bakery: the window bar is void of customers and only two of the tables are occupied. From where he stands, the entire right side of the bakery is empty except for Connie, Sasha, and Jean, the only occupants. Marco watches Sasha point to something on the papers she’s holding and sees Connie nod, hand covering his mouth as he listens to whatever it is she’s telling him. Across from them, Jean is quiet. Marco can tell that nothing surrounding Jean is registering in his head at all: he’s writing something, focusing intently on the words his fingers tap on the keyboard of his computer. His gaze flits between a piece of paper resting against the arm of his chair and the one he’s writing on in his lap. Marco sees the deep crease between Jean’s downturned eyebrows, and he just knows that the atmosphere of the bakery won’t get through to Jean until that focus is broken. 

Marco doesn’t want to disturb him: he looks so...there’s a word for it. Marco knows the word for it, and yet it escapes him. He was never one for words or naming things, but looking at Jean, Marco can’t help but think he looks like he belongs in that spot, like that chair would feel out of place if anyone else occupied it besides Jean.

_(Latibule: a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort.)_

He doesn’t want to interrupt, so Marco doesn’t; he figures he’ll catch them for a quick hello before they leave for the night. As he’s about to head back into the kitchen, Sasha yells out in a voice much too loud for the quiet bakery, “Hey, Marco! Where ya goin’?!”

At the mention of Marco’s name, Jean’s head snaps up and he finds Marco behind the counter next to Armin, the spell broken and Jean’s concentration now elsewhere. Marco stares at him, mouth hanging open and wide eyes. Sasha is waving and Connie is grinning, leg bouncing underneath his laptop, but Marco doesn’t really notice. Jean is staring back, fingers hovering over the keys, and the barest hints of a grin tug at a corner of his mouth.

Underneath the counter, Armin lightly pushes his fingers into Marco’s waist, urging him forward. “Go,” he whispers, and Marco shakes his head to clear his daze. Marco smiles at Armin, who gives him an encouraging wink and a gentle push of his own, before Marco starts to make his way over to the trio’s table. 

Marco waves and beams, looking at each of them. “Hello hello. Working late, I take it?”

“Unfortunately,” Sasha confirms. “We don’t get much sleep these days.” 

Connie nods his head in memory of a time when sleep wasn’t considered a luxury. “‘Tis true. It’s a sad life, Gingerbread Man.”

Marco laughs and nods his agreement. “Oh believe me, I understand. I think I get an average of five hours a night, seven if I’m lucky. I feel your pain.” Sasha and Connie bow their heads in grievance for their misfortune. “No pastries tonight for you guys?” 

“Oh trust me,” Jean reassures, “they have had more than should be allowed per person. You should put a limit to how much they can consume each day with the way they devour everything.”

“Marco,” Sasha pleads, eyes wide and mildly worried, “don’t do that to us. We’re good customers, right? You wouldn’t do that to little old me, would you?”

“Hey!” Connie shoves his shoulder against Sasha’s. “What about me?!”

In a hushed voice, Sasha calms her boyfriend. “Shh, babe, let me do the talking. This isn’t the end.”

Marco waves his hands to wipe away any worries they might have and chuckles. “I wouldn’t do that. Although you should eat them in moderation, you know.”

Jean scoffs and hides a smirk behind his hand, pretending to scan the words on his draft sheet to appear productive. “‘Moderation’ isn’t in their vocabulary, I’m afraid.”

Humming in mock contemplation, Marco folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry guys, I tried.”

“That’s okay, Marco. You get an ‘A’ for effort,” Connie says.

“Thank you.” Marco takes a step backwards and gives half a wave. “I’ll let you guys get back to work. You’re more than welcome to stay until closing, and if you need anything let me or Armin know.”

“Awwwww,” Connie and Sasha whine in unison.

Marco laughs and pivots to walk behind the register. “I’ll be back!”

Before he enters the kitchen, Marco takes one more look at their table. He notices a thick book sitting comfortably in the corner of the coffee table next to Jean’s messenger bag, the exact size of the gaping hole in the bottom right corner of the bottom shelf on the bookcase. Marco smiles to himself and heads to his station to make one final small batch of doughnuts.

 

* * *

 

By 6:30, the bakery is void of customers aside from the remaining three publicists. Eren, Armin, and Marco clean up the bakery fairly quickly while Connie, Sasha, and Jean pack up their things. Connie fixed the remaining issues with his cover, and Jean managed to re-write and format the book’s description within the template. The final details will have to be done at the office tomorrow, but for right now, Marco rewards their progress by bringing out a plate of the last doughnuts for the day. All six of them eat their treats over napkins and laugh at Connie, who can’t stop himself from getting glaze all over his cheeks. When they’re finished, Connie offers to help Eren take the bags of garbage out back with Marco’s permission, and the two haul them to the dumpster. Armin wipes down the counter one more time with Sasha’s insistence that she help. Jean and Marco are left restacking stray books from empty tables back on the bookcases, the copy of Robert Browning’s completed works the last to go into the spot on the bottom right shelf. Jean handles it with such care that Marco wouldn’t dare touch it, instead opting to watch Jean’s fingers absentmindedly brush against the flaking front cover before gently sliding it into its designated spot. It’s a moment Marco is sure Jean experiences more times than he can count—Marco feels like he’s peering into the window of someone’s home, hidden and uninvited, witnessing something intimate, unguarded.

“All done!” Sasha calls from the counter, and Armin takes the cleaning rag from her with words of appreciation. Eren and Connie emerge from the kitchen, and Connie is all smiles as he explains to Sasha just how unexpectedly big the kitchen is. Sasha, in return, shows him around behind the register. Marco and Jean laugh, sharing in their friends’ enthusiasm over Marco’s bakery.

Marco puts his hands on his hips and looks around at his clean home. “Thank you for the help, everyone. Armin, what time is it?”

Armin briefly looks at the clock on the wall behind the counter and tells everyone, “It’s seven-fifty.”

“‘Bout time we close up then, yeah?” Eren asks.

“We should get going,” Connie yawns, and Sasha drapes an arm around Connie’s shoulders.

“Let’s go home, sleepy.”

“Oh wait, before we lock up for tonight. Eren, Armin, I wanted to ask you guys something. Actually,” Marco realizes, “it’s good that you three are still here. If they agree, I might ask for your help, too.”

“Agree to what?” Eren asks, and his and Armin’s hands search for each other in tandem, automatic.

“Okay, hear me out.” Marco takes a deep breath in and fiddes with one of his apron strings. “I know we’ve been getting busier these days, and I was doing some thinking. You both come in nearly every day, and I don’t want you to push yourselves more than you’re able to, and even if you can, I don’t want you to anyway. So I wanted to know your opinion on hiring another hand or two to help out here. This way you both get to rest and actually have lives like you’re supposed to.”

It’s silent in the bakery for a few minutes as Eren and Armin think over Marco’s proposal. They share a glance between them, indecipherable to everyone else, but understood between them, and focus their gazes back on Marco.

Marco’s nervous—he doesn’t want it to sound like he’s trying to take hours away from them, or like he’s trying to force distance between the two of them and the bakery. Eren and Armin are his co-workers, but more importantly, they’re Marco’s friends: he wants to put their well-being as a priority, as it should be.

The tension in Marco’s shoulder blades eases as Eren and Armin smile, squeezing their hands between them. “Of course that’s alright with us,” Armin says, and Marco sighs in relief. “Why wouldn’t we be okay with that?”

Marco shrugs. “I didn’t want to make it seem like I was trying to be insensitive, I guess?”

“You’re an idiot,” Eren laughs. “That’s not insensitive, it’s the exact opposite. Thank you for thinking of us. Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Actually,” Marco bites his lip and looks in the direction of Jean, Sasha, and Connie. “Do any of you know someone who’s looking for a job?”

“Hmm,” Sasha hums. “Not off the top of my head, but have no fear! I’m going to do some research and see if I can find you someone.”

“Same here. If we find anyone, we’ll definitely send them your way,” Connie adds. “Please, _I_ almost want to work here.”

Marco mockingly raises an eyebrow. “Almost?”

“Don’t test me, Muffin Man.”

Marco holds his hands up in defense.

After the group exchanges goodbyes and goodnights, Connie, Sasha, and Jean make their way out the front while Eren and Armin head to the back room to gather their things from their lockers. Connie and Sasha are down the steps and walking towards the steps leading to the subway, but as Jean goes to follow them, he quickly about-faces before Marco can lock the door. 

“Wait,” he insists, and Marco’s half-hidden behind the wooden doorframe and his face pokes out of the doorway into the cool night air, but he waits. 

“Yes?”

Jean pauses because he hates this part. He hates giving something away because he wants to, but it’s not easy. And even though it’s not easy, and even though he’s starting to think he can trust Marco despite not knowing him very well, and even though he’s never done this, even with Sasha and Connie—

Even though his hands begin to shake and he feels balloons rising and fighting one another to be the first to escape his stomach and float out of his mouth—he’s afraid they’ll pop, but there are words in there and he can’t form them when they’re separated—

Even though he hates this, it’s exciting.

So he takes those shaking hands and digs one into his pants pocket and one into the side pocket of his messenger bag that dangles against the side of his right thigh, a weight filled with completed sentences and scrapped chapters, words tethered to pages like balloons tied to a finger. His fingers brush against the folded piece of yellow paper with lines and a definition he’s not sure he should have chosen but can’t change anymore. 

It’s in ink, after all. 

A balloon gets loose from the bunch and floats out of Jean’s mouth before he can grab it.

Again he wonders if this is too much, too unusual. But he looks up to see Marco’s face, a combination of anticipation and excitement, as if he half expects what Jean is about to give him, and half hoping he’ll be surprised. Jean swallows his doubts and hands over the poem. “I, uh… here. You can, uhm. Yanno, hold onto it, if you want. Or not, yanno, that’s totally up to you, I can always—” 

“Yes!” Marco cuts in. “I mean yes, I’ll definitely hold onto it. You know, for posterity.”

“In the name of posterity, then.” 

The poem passes from Jean’s hand to Marco’s, and a piece of Jean is lost and simultaneously refilled. 

 _(Compaginate: to join; to connect)_  

Marco holds the folded post-it in between gentle fingers, looking at it as if someone had just given him gold. He looks up at Jean, grateful and as impatient as Jean had been before walking through the doors. “Thank you.”

Jean isn’t really sure what to say; he’s never done anything like this before in his life. Friends weren’t easy to come by and making them stay was never a problem for him; they were never around long enough for Jean to look back and learn how he secured them in the first place. He’s still a little wary of things, unsure how to proceed and how to maintain what he’s been so fortunate to experience, but he figures one day at a time is a good start.

He’s shaking. Jean doesn’t dare look back—the balloon is already in the clouds.

 

* * *

 

 _6/14/14_  

_“desiderare”_

_d irectly below the heart is an_

_e mpty room that is not empty. it holds_

_s everal paintings on the walls, all of which have_

_i nscriptions of the soul in the frames._

_d renched in paint, the canvases of_

_e ach are infused with a_

_r are feeling i have only known twice in my life:_

_a fter a book is finished, and after i’ve_

_r eturned home, wishing i could somehow_

_e ndure being apart._

_(Desiderare: to long for.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some brief explanation about marie de france:
> 
> this woman was a badass ok. she was a writer of arthurian romance in the second half of the 12th century and she brought in themes in her works that were otherwise absent in the stories of arthur: bodily desire and its dangers, romantic longing, the realm of the uncanny, the power of women, and the force of wealth and its influence in the noblest of courts. she likes to deal with erotic desire and women's power, for good or evil, as their primary motivating force. in the brief excerpt of the prologue to her lais that i've included in here, she likes to call attention to elements that tradition has left aside from her time period. she was super rad.
> 
> some clarification:  
> \- the "Priscian" in the second line refers to a famed grammarian of the late roman empire Priscian, who remained widely influential in the study of latin language and literature in the 12th century when marie wrote this.  
> \- marie refers to the practice of "supplying glosses" to school texts; she also implies that later readers bring their own perspective to earlier works. so, essentially, to gloss a text is as i described in this chapter: to supply your own experiences, emotions, and wisdom to an already written text. this determines how you feel about the text after you've read it and what you took away from it.
> 
> if you want to check out marie de france's other works, i highly suggest "Lanval" and "Chevrefoil" (Honeysuckle). i love brit lit, so i'm ur person for recs ;)
> 
> as always, feedback is WIDELY appreciated, whether here or on tumblr/twitter, so if you're into that think i would love it. thanks for reading!


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